Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees
by FairyTale87
Summary: The winter solstice had never shown mercy on Morgana or Camelot; it was the longest and most brutal night. But it was Arthur's night. So she'd endure it. For him. AU. ArMor, Merwen.
1. Fractured Moonlight

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_One _

'_Fractured Moonlight' _

_Disclaimer: _I don't own _Merlin_, but I wouldn't mind paying BBC a large sum of money for Arthur, haha.

The air was cooling harshly as Morgana sat in the botanical gardens hidden in the corner of the castle. She ran her fingers over the grass that was slowly being suffocated by the icy chill. Soon, autumn would be over. Winter, was on its way. She shivered slightly. The coldest months of the year were never kind to the people of Camelot—especially not after the winter solstice. It was four months of a fireless hell, before nature finally decided to be kind once more to its inhabitance.

Morgana smoothed a part of her crimson dress that had become wrinkled with her shifting. The material reminded her of the autumn leaves: the leaves that were dead now. Shriveled into a ghastly brown. Gone until next year. She tugged on a piece of her raven-black hair, twirling it tensely as she stared up at the graying sky.

It was like the earth was warning her. Warning her of the winter.

But it was Arthur's favorite time of year. His magnificent red-flushed lips became exaggerated beauty against the barren white of the world around him. She sighed at the thought of it, and smiled slightly at remembering the way his dirty blonde hair glowed in the summertime.

She placed a leg comfortably under the other one, until the cold finally ushered her back inside the castle.

To the stone walls that were far too gray for her liking. To the hallways that echoed so loudly, it felt as if even the dead could hear her. There was no sanctuary in Camelot for Morgana. No haven other than Arthur Pendragon.

She wrapped her arms around her thin waist and went down the halls at a quicker pace. She could almost hear the ghostly voices murmuring complaints about all of the racket she was creating.

Camelot's halls were always as good as vacant in winter.

Morgana turned the corner, going down a dimly lit, and frankly unnervingly small, corridor. She walked down it slowly, thinking and listening to nothing but her breathing. It was peaceful in a sense, just being secluded and safe in her own little place. But then the voices came. The voices of society.

"Your daughter is turning how old this year?" a deep and dry voice asked. The voices seemed to be approaching Morgana's corridor. She froze, and listened.

"Vanora will be sixteen, Mador ," the other man returned, barely anymore life in his voice than his companion's. Morgana rolled her eyes. It was the lords Lionel and Mador . How had she not guessed that? They were the two most womanly men in all of Uther's court. They spoke more about gossip and marriage than any other woman Morgana had ever encountered in her life. They spent more time on those petty things than _she_ did. _And these are the men that serve in our army_, she thought dryly.

Someone snickered quietly behind her. She jumped, and spun around swiftly, ready to attack. She was met with a very amused Arthur. His eyes still gleaming, despite the poorly lit conditions.

"It's not ladylike to eavesdrop, Lady Morgana," he scolded tauntingly, only inches away from her. Morgana's heaving chest skimmed across his wondrously taut one. She tried her best not to let it faze her. Or more realistically, not allow Arthur to know that it fazed her.

She supplied him with a deadpanned frown before turning around, making sure Lord Lionel and Mador were a safe distance away. When she had assured herself that they were, she turned back around to Arthur, slapping him on the chest with the back of her hand. "Well, it's not very princely to scare a person like that," she finally replied, hiding the smile well. She'd had lots of practice over the years.

"The title's enough for me," he returned lightly with a shrug, "it compensates for my lack of… what was the word you used? 'Princeliness'?" Arthur gave her a smirk. _God, those lips…_

"That's not a word," Morgana replied, praying to god he wouldn't walk away from her too soon. He'd spent the entire day with the knights, never stepping foot into the castle since before the sun had even risen. She missed him.

"Technicalities, m'lady," he drawled. Morgana loved it when he did that. The way he wove words together with a slur was all too enticing, and it took all her might not to ravage the lips that had formed them.

"What are you doing back so soon anyway?" she asked, beginning to walk past Arthur, him falling in step with her as if it was second nature. "I would have thought you'd keep them out there even after night had fallen." She lifted her emerald eyes to him.

Arthur had always loved the night. She knew that. It oddly was perfect for him. But what exactly drew him towards the hours of darkness she didn't think she'd ever fully grasp.

He gave her a look. Somewhere in between hilarity and taunt. "Hold everything for a moment," he responded, and she knew a snarky remark was coming. "I know about a court-scheduled event that the great and punctual Lady Morgana is unaware of? You seem to be slacking, m'lady." He used that word again. Damn him. She swore she fell a bit deeper for him every time he uttered it. _M'lady. _It sounded marvelous, coming from the Crown Prince of Camelot.

"More like taking the day off. I cannot be aware of _every _happening in the castle," Morgana supplied to Arthur blithely. She took a step closer to him as they rounded the bend, ending up in one of the more congested hallways of the castle. His elbow brushed her upper arm ever so slightly. A shiver jolted through her arm. It was a good shiver though. The kind akin to a cello hitting a deep note on a snowy night.

"Well, I wouldn't keep that up too long if I were you. Laziness is unbecoming for you." She couldn't tell if he was joking with her or not, so she gave him a numb look. But her eyes whispered a silent _thank you_. Her wishful thinking led her to hope that it was supposed to be a compliment. Her heart fluttered momentarily, before she composed herself.

"Duly noted," she said with a smile. "So what is this huge event I have seemed to miss?" Morgana arched a dark eyebrow. Arthur's light ones rose for a moment, before he allowed them to drop.

"My father's old friend Lord Aleyn is visiting from Nantres, so he has decided a feast is in order." Arthur rolled his eyes. Morgana's face flickered with grimness as she watched him. Arthur had never been a fan of large celebrations thrown at random, despite the popular belief and gossip of Camelot. And he especially didn't like a feast in honor of someone from Nantres. The outlying town of the kingdom was a dark place.

"A feast," Morgana replied in disappointment. "Is that really the smartest of ideas, with the Famine Months coming soon?" Food was scarce after winter settled in, and Camelot had to sustain. And Morgana was positive the memory of the luxurious food they were sure to have tonight would not keep them fulfilled through the winter.

"I don't believe my father has looked that far ahead," Arthur said, his voice way too calm for the situation. "You know how irrational he gets when his friends are in court." His playful lips thinned into a pursed worry. It was a rare occasion for the prince to show a genuine ounce of seriousness on his face. Especially in his eyes.

"Yes," she said softly, "I do." Yet another thing to add to the list of reasons why Uther Pendragon was far from Morgana's favorite person. If not yet, the king was sure to be the death of Camelot. She just knew it. For a man who claimed to be so rational, he was an utter contradiction. Morgana sighed.

"Why did Uther not tell us of this feast sooner?" She looked up to Arthur, tracing the contours of his profile with her eyes. He had strong, sharp, Grecian features. Straight nose, prominent chin, luxurious lips… he was what a king was supposed to look like. Supposed to be.

"Must have slipped his mind, I suppose," Arthur returned, shrugging his shoulders. "Why are you so curious about the whole thing?" His jaw twitched slightly, and Morgana watched as the muscles moved lithely under his skin. _Gorgeous._

"I'm not curious," she said defensively, "just…"

"Curious," he finished. "Yes, I noticed." He shot her a sideways smirk.

"You are utterly impossible," she grumbled.

"Impossibly irresistible?" Arthur prompted, and Morgana hesitated before retorting. The prince was spot on.

"Yes, exactly. You are impossibly irresistible to narcissism," she drawled, before smirking slightly.

"You're cruel today, Morgana," Arthur said with fake hurt. He paused, breathing deeply. "Aleyn should be coming soon…"

"I should get ready then," Morgana returned vacantly casting a glance up at Arthur. He was still looking at her, his lips curving slowly into a sort of smile.

He nodded. "I'll see you at dinner." Arthur walked past her, his right index finger grazing her forearm ever so subtly. Her heart rate quickened, and she had no power to produce any more words. Morgana leaned on the wall behind her. It was odd, she and Arthur having a rather civil conversation. Usually they would have parted in anger born from stupidity. She smiled. They were getting better, being together.

* * *

"My lady, would you prefer the blue or green one?" Lying across each of Gwen's arms was a dress. Morgana made her way over to the maid, smiling thoughtfully at the dresses. She ran a hand over each material. The blue one was utterly stunning. But she knew Arthur had an attraction to green, and it would match better with his red cape he was sure to wear anyways. She raised her eyes to Gwen's.

"The green one," she said with confidence, running one more hand along the beautifully stitched side.

"I am sure Prince Arthur will find you stunning tonight," Gwen commented lightly, as she placed the blue dress neatly on the chair beside her. She'd always found it easy and free to speak to Morgana. They had become friends first, maid and master second. And that was the way it should be. Gwen tucked a flyaway curl behind her ear, and handed the dress to Morgana. The wonderful Lady always insisted on helping Gwen in any way possible. So today, she'd hold the dress, while Gwen undid the crimson colored beauty.

"Pri—" she stuttered, "Prince Arthur?" Morgana had never had a knack for acting dumb or ignorant, so she knew there was no way to hide her true intentions in wearing the deep evergreen dress.

"Well yes," Gwen said with a shy smile, "he is always looking at you, my lady. I thought you would want to impress him tonight." She focused her eyes on the strings she was untying, the dress finally falling, leaving Morgana in her undergarments. She wouldn't be changing them today. The king's ward turned around, handing the dress back to Gwen. She caught her maid's gaze.

"It is what King Uther would like," Morgana tried in attempt to hide her glee. It wasn't just her that felt Arthur's stare on her. Despite their closeness, Morgana and Arthur had always set their friendship up as a sort of friendly rivalry. And it was not a childhood rival one usually married in Camelot. Well, there was always room for a new tradition…

"Of course," Gwen muttered supportively, dropping her eyes one more to the ground. She knew very well the feelings Morgana harbored for Arthur. She would never mention it to the Lady, but she hoped that Morgana would take the next step with the prince soon. Gwen would never suspect Arthur to wait around for a woman forever. Not even Morgana, maybe. She couldn't bear the thought of seeing her friend heartbroken.

* * *

_So this is my first time writing the characters of _Merlin_, so please be kind to me, haha. And next chapter I plan to have much more Arthur and Merlin, and of course, the feast. By the way, sorry for the shortness of this; I wanted to take my first stab at _Merlin_ slowly, so expect chapters to be longer in the future. Also, for once I have a pretty much solid idea of where I want to go with this, so hopefully updates won't take too long. But please feel free to tell me any ideas you have, and let me know how I did in a review! I really need the input. _

_Reviews are love! _


	2. One Who Creeps in Corridors

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Two_

'_One Who Creeps in Corridors' _

_Disclaimer: _I don't own _Merlin_, but I wouldn't mind paying BBC a large sum of money for Arthur, haha.

Arthur Pendragon made his way to his chambers, his pace barely even a walk. Running a hand down the back of his head, he kicked himself mentally for leaving like that. But Morgana had looked so stunning in that cherry colored dress of hers. Red had always brought out her eyes, but today, no other maiden could rival her beauty. What he would give to turn back time just to see her brilliant face in that corridor one last time…

He blindly turned the corner, reaching the stairs. He knew these halls better than his own personality. They were binding—he had no other choice but to get well acquainted with them. They'd be his home forever, most likely.

It was only myth that being a king or prince coincided with freedom.

The footsteps on the stone stairs were even louder than the pounding in his head. Arthur was tired; exhausted, more accurately. It had been the sixth day in a row he woke up before sunrise to train his knights. And god did they need the practice…

Maids whispered in the passageways, inserting a little giggle here and there. Arthur was surprised the girls had anything left to talk about. They spent more time talking than they did breathing it seemed. And there wasn't much to gossip about in the first place. Camelot wasn't the most exciting of settings. Not in the slightest. But Arthur could imagine the maids having more dirt on their masters than he could even dream up. He shook his head. He wouldn't mind switching roles for a day or two; he needed the break.

Lifting his eyes from his shoes, he was greeted by the door to his chambers. He pushed it open with a hard tap, meeting a sight of a still disheveled room. Clothes were spewed across virtually all walking space, and closet doors and drawers hung open. His pet peeve had consumed him. Arthur considered himself to be a fairly neat person, but the past two weeks had caused him to lapse.

The prince noticed Merlin reading a book in the corner of the room. He knew he had come in quietly, but he didn't think he was _that _light on his feet. _Dimwit_, he muttered in his head, before clearing his throat, and setting his eyes on Merlin like a steel sword. The dark haired boy's head shot up, all the color flooding from his face.

"Arth—sire," the manservant corrected, "I didn't know you'd be um, back, uh…" His ankles were still crossed lazily, his posture sagging, and the book still open in his hand. Arthur raised a prompting eyebrow. Merlin quickly stood up, dog-earing his page, and set the book on the chair. Well this was awkward…

"At least have the ability to form complete sentences, since apparently cleaning a room is something you're incapable of." He kicked away a white shirt lying on the ground beside him, and crossed his arms. In all honesty, it wasn't that big of a deal. Arthur was rarely in his room anyway. But that didn't mean Merlin could squirt by without consequence. The manservant did have quite the talent for doing the _exact _opposite of what Arthur had asked him to do.

"I'm sorry, sire," Merlin said looking down to his shoes. "I did intend to clean up."

"Well, may I just say you're doing a _marvelous _job with that," he drawled sarcastically, taking a step closer to Merlin. It was then that the servant noticed just how chaotic the room was.

"I—I can do it now," he replied with fear induced eagerness. Arthur shook his head.

"Leave it," he said sharply, "there's no time."

"Sire?" Merlin questioned. Where did Arthur have to be? If he was done with the knights, then what did he have left to do?

Arthur sighed dramatically. "Am I the _only_ person in this entire castle who knows about the feast tonight?" he asked tiredly. He _loathed _being the one actually prepared for an event. It was so—so goody-two-shoes.

"That seems to be the general consensus, sire," Merlin replied. He took it that Arthur had had to inform other people of the occasion too. He held back an amused smile. He loved it when things swerved Arthur off his usual course and high horse. The look of irritated bewilderment on his face was priceless.

When Arthur showed no signs of replying, Merlin shifted his weight, speaking again. "Would you like me to pick something out for you to wear?" He picked at his nails, knowing he was still in dangerous waters with Arthur.

"Think you can manage that?" Arthur inquired penetratingly, "because it seems to me, every article of clothing I own is on the floor." He directed a knowing glare towards Merlin. The servant got the hint.

"I can scrounge up something I'm sure," Merlin muttered.

"_Splendid,_" Arthur bit out, making his way through the maze of clothes to his bed. He collapsed on it back first, not caring in the slightest if Merlin thought he was being lazy or not. The prince was too tired to mind. Too tired to think.

"So what exactly is the occasion tonight?" Merlin asked from inside one of Arthur's many closets. The prince craned his neck, his eyes meeting the back of Merlin's head.

Arms crossed loosely across his chest, he breathed deeply. Of course Merlin would start a conversation. Because allowing the tired knight to sleep would be too logical… "Lord Aleyn is coming from Nantres," he replied monotonously.

"Lord Aleyn?" Merlin asked. He'd never heard the name before. But if the man was having a feast in his honor, he must be someone of importance.

"Old friend of my father's," Arthur said dismissively. Merlin truly didn't understand the concept of shutting up.

"From Nantres," he said in slight admiration as he came out of the closet carrying Arthur's run-of-the-mill celebration outfit. "I've never heard of anyone wanting to vacation there in the summer."

Merlin may actually be the most random person Arthur had ever met. "Obviously," he drawled. "Besides, it's extremely far north. Even in the summer you'd still need furs." Not that Arthur would mind that. In fact, that would be utterly perfect for him. He'd never had any desire for hideously hot heat, sand, or cooler clothes. The cold was fine with him. He preferred it.

"It'll be a real shock for the lord then, when he arrives." Merlin gave a clueless smile, hovering over Arthur's form. The prince looked up to his servant.

"You know something Merlin," Arthur began starkly, "from down here, your ears look _even _bigger than usual. I didn't think that was humanly possible." He gave the dark haired boy a smirk, before pulling himself upright. He could see the look on Merlin's face tangibly fall.

"Would you like to get dressed now, or should I come back in a while?" The clothes suddenly felt extremely heavy in his hands.

"Now," Arthur returned. "I wouldn't want to be late now, would I?" He supplied Merlin with a playful grin, before getting off of the bed.

"No sire," Merlin replied quietly, "you wouldn't." Arthur seemed to take no notice of the hurt in the servant's voice. As much as the boy tried to like his prince, Arthur sure made it an annoying feat.

* * *

He was early. _Damn Merlin_. The manservant had dressed him with a swiftness Arthur didn't know Merlin could ever muster, and had ushered him out of his chambers directly after. So now the prince lingered outside of the Solar, peering through the slightly opened doors.

The room had never been one of Arthur's favorites, since it was where the king spent most of his free time. The array of chairs and couches in it would have been marvelous for the prince to lounge on; a true place for privacy. But Uther had claimed it as his own for as long as Arthur could remember. The boy had only stepped foot into it about once or twice, and usually to be scolded by his father. The Solar held no fond memories for Arthur. He sucked in a tuft of dusty air, letting it out laboriously.

Who would be in the Solar at this time anyway? Especially with a feast swiftly approaching. _That's odd. _Arthur took a step closer, to make the muffled sounds more clear. His father was talking with Lord Aleyn.

Why were they doing this now? They had the entire feast to catch up. Arthur listened intently.

"You're positive," Uther said coldly, having to look up at the taller man. Aleyn was a massive human being. More akin to a bear than a man. His beard was modeled after the style currently popular in the most primitive countryside of the kingdom, and its graying curls hid all of his neck. Aleyn was a sort of… bear-lion. Arthur made note not to get on this man's bad side.

"Yes, Uther, I'm sure." Aleyn had a gravelly yet oddly enough high, voice. It still intimidated the hell out of Arthur though. He watched as Uther pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Who could be destroying the towns?" Uther questioned, his mind somewhere far off in the distance. When push came to shove, the king was fairly good at making smart decisions for his kingdom. Arthur hoped that if this situation was as grave as it sounded, his father would keep up that track record.

"It could be many things," Aleyn replied in a scholarly way. "Enemy kingdoms, revolutionaries, bandits…" he listed. He made it sound as if it was no big deal. Well, in Nantres, it really wasn't. The town was so far north and away from court society, that anything really went there. Their laws were about as strong as Merlin was fighting with a sword.

"But why now? Camelot has had virtual peace for three years." Uther shook his head. Arthur could tell the whole situation sat heavily in his father's stomach. Not that he could blame him. The prince knew the circumstances must be bad, in order to delay his father from drinking and feasting.

A tense atmosphere would fall on the celebration. _Joy_.

"Does violence really need a reason, Uther?" Aleyn gave the king a pointed look. What exactly the man was trying to convey was lost to Arthur, but his father seemed to pick up on it.

"No," he returned gravely, "it doesn't." The king's face was stone.

There was a pause in the conversation. Neither man even seemed to change their position in the slightest. Arthur was more than confused. Uther had never been known to be serious when a jovial banquet was in his near future; not even when a severe matter was brought to his attention. But here he stood with Aleyn, eyes glazed with weightiness.

"Uther, let us enjoy a feast, shall we? We can talk more about this later." He placed a gigantic hand on Uther's shoulder, and began guiding the king from the room.

Arthur cursed under his breath, slipping away from the door quickly. He backtracked a tad, and then walked forward lithely.

Well, at least he wasn't early now…

"Ah, Arthur," Uther greeted as he noticed his son coming towards him, "you remember my dear friend Aleyn." The father gave his son a look, warning him to pretend as if he did. Because honestly, Arthur couldn't have even picked the man out of a lineup.

"Yes," Arthur returned, a polite smile forming on his face, "of course. It's good to see you again, Lord Aleyn." He bowed his head slightly. These superfluous greetings were so burdening to him.

Aleyn supplied something that could pass as a smile. "You've certainly grown." He turned to Uther. "Has he been knighted yet?" The look he gave was more than intimidating.

"Yes," Uther replied with pride, "going on three years now."

The guest lord seemed pleased—casually so. As if any other answer would not have sufficed. He observed Arthur with interrogating eyes.

"I wait anxiously to see you spar," he said to the prince dryly. "I take it you are handy with a sword?" Arthur looked at the man, trying to hide his shock. Everyone in the kingdom had seemed to hear of his many triumphs in tournaments, but Aleyn was ignorant to it all. The bear of a lord understood this. "In Nantres, it is not easy to come by news of Camelot." Arthur nodded.

"I hope too that a tournament can be arranged before your departure," the prince returned, looking at his father. A gleaming smile broke out on Uther's face.

"Yes, yes, of course, Aleyn, you will see Arthur fight." He gave his friend a manly, yet still socially acceptable, smack on the back. "I will organize a competition between the most valiant knights and lords of the immediate areas, if that will tend to your liking."

Arthur could see the slight pleasure that had been building in Aleyn's eyes disperse. Everyone knew the kingdom was set up in such a way that the most courageous, talented, and noble of knights and lords were housed closest to Camelot (for such needs as the army, or events like a tournament), and the men situated farthest from court were as good as insignificant.

Yet Uther's smile still stood strong, as Aleyn seethed under his breath, and Arthur prepared to be armed and ready to lull the Nantres lord's heated emotions. The prince held his breath.

"It does indeed," Aleyn returned. Arthur was surprised at how well the man had composed himself. Uther hadn't the slightest clue that anything had been amiss. "And add jousting to the event." He turned to Arthur. "You claim you are clever with a sword, but how talented are you with a horse?"

Arthur knew it was not a question he was to respond to. He'd answer the lord's inquiry with his performance in the jousting event.

_Damn_. The blonde haired prince hadn't been on a horse in ages; for the purpose of jousting, anyways. His knights had occupied all of his time for the past few weeks. The event was completely foreign to him now, and he was worse than rusty.

He needed to practice. A lot. _Wonderful. _

Uther cleared his throat. "The feast should be starting soon," he prompted, leading Arthur and Aleyn towards the Great Hall.

* * *

The food was magnificent. Juicy thick pork was placed all around the large tables, baskets of various types of bread circulating around. Goblets filled to the brim with ale and wines were being downed by the gallons, and the drunken laughter was the only sound audible.

Morgana felt sorry for the poor musicians situated in the Minstrel's Gallery which overlooked the Great Hall. Their beautiful harps and string instruments made not even the slightest impact on the guests. And yet they still continued to play. It was their duty, to their now swaying king.

She was sure their playing kept them warm was well. They were up so high and distant from the fires that the chilled air was probably freezing over their talented fingers. Nobody noticed them; nobody cared, or even listened. The food and drink were amusement enough, it seemed. Sighing, Morgana weaved her way through the numerous tables scattered around the Great Hall.

Arthur was nowhere in sight. She looked intently for that golden crown set upon that head of equally golden hair. Morgana saw no flowing red cape strutting proudly about the room, no perfect posture and profile observing its guests.

It was while she was searching that he spotted her. Raven hair tied up in a neatly disheveled bun, and flyaway strands of delicately curled perfection outlining her face. Morgana had the most interesting features. Such a soft and precise bone structure, hidden under layers of perfectly pastel skin. Tonight though, she was glowing. He hated how sickeningly poetic it seemed, but she was shining bright and white enough to pass as an angel.

She practically was an angel, for that matter.

He dodged her glances, adoringly enjoying watching her from afar. Her body was a torpedo of allurement in the green dress that clung to her body just tight enough to hint towards her curves. The color did something miraculous to her skin and eyes. They seemed electrified, with a kind of beauty only flawlessness could produce. She was the embodiment of the shining moon against the densely black painted midnight sky.

Finally, her jade eyes met his sapphire. They collided in an explosion of fire. Fringed and crackling edges of the two colors burned with brilliant turquoise ember.

Morgana gave him a small smile, and began to walk closer to him. She was within arms' reach, when she noticed just how incredible he smelled. A damp wood scent mixed with what could only be described as pine needles, was laced with the crisp aroma of a winter's morning. She'd never really taken any observance to this addictive stimulator, but now she couldn't get enough. Everything and everyone in the room was irrelevant other than Arthur. He possessed a light that burnt out any and all competition. She could feel her breath hitch in her throat when he began to speak.

"Great feast, huh?" He nodded coolly towards the commotion around them, his eyes landing on her again. They flashed with a kind of desire.

"As always," Morgana returned with a small bow of the head. "I'm surprised you haven't drunk yourself to sleep yet," she commented almost blithely. She was relieved that he seemed virtually sober. It always worried her when he drank that much and it usually ended with her being left alone at the feast to fret over his well being. Right now though, he was healthy and keeping her company. The shadow of a smile wisped across her face. It was a smile for her eyes only.

"It's a long and complex process," Arthur said with a smirk. Yet still he grabbed no goblet off of the table near them.

"I was unaware that there was an exact formula for drinking yourself an excuse out of the feast," she returned. Pestering him about his frankly childish habits was nothing short of good entertainment for the night.

"Well, when you go to enough of them, you start to develop a certain habit, and then use it to your advantage." He shrugged, finally taking a cup off the table. From the first gulp, Morgana knew it was his first. The first drink is always the most bitter and hard to gulp down. After that though, Arthur seemed to become immune to the intensity of the alcohol.

"You make it sound as if you're formulating an angle for battle or something," Morgana laughed with a shake of her head. Arthur's lips hadn't touched the chalice to his lips again.

"Need all the practice I can get, right?" He raised a playful eyebrow at her, and gave a flashy smile.

She nodded. "Have you spoken to Lord Aleyn yet?" Morgana tore her gaze from Arthur, and placed it on the massive northerner sitting next to the king.

"Here, no. He seems a bit—preoccupied." A goblet dripping with ale was clutched in one of his hands, and one of the many willing maidens was running tempting fingers over his chest. "But before I did."

Morgana gave him a look to continue. He didn't take the bait. "Well, what was he like?"

"Bearish," Arthur replied jokingly.

"You're such a child," she said, crossing her arms. It accentuated her breasts to an extent Arthur didn't even know was possible. Morgana was _so _lucky he was still sober enough to have some of his self restraint…

"I take that as a compliment," he told her in that 'I'm Prince Arthur, King of Awesomeness' tone he always had lurking in his voice. He downed the rest of his ale, and picked a freshly filled one from the table.

"Of course you do," Morgana drawled. "Well, I'll leave you and your ego to chat over just how perfect you both are." She walked past him, not wanting to watch as Arthur destroyed the chivalry she knew he had hidden under all of those thick layers.

* * *

So it's longer as promised! (Though I did want to make it longer. Oh well, next time). My first stab at writing Merlin or Uther, so please tell me how you think I did. For Arthur and Morgana as well. Also, any ideas you have for the tournament or story in general would be wonderful. And a HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and subscribed to this story. It means the world to me.

Oh, and remember: if you don't review, you lessen your chance of being able to see Arthur spar shirtless, haha.

_Reviews are love_


	3. Light in Your Bright Blue Eyes

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Three_

'_Light in Your Bright Blue Eyes' _

_Disclaimer: _I don't own _Merlin_, but I wouldn't mind paying BBC a large sum of money for Arthur, haha.

Merlin opened the door to Arthur's chambers, slamming it shut harshly behind him. He smirked when he saw the prince startled into consciousness. The young Pendragon deserved it. He'd drank enough the night prior to even drown a small fish. Merlin had been unwillingly volunteered to guide Arthur to bed (courtesy of one Lady Morgana), and his feet had been stepped on more times than he could count. Arthur Pendragon was a terribly clumsy drunk.

The sorcerer sighed when his master's body became limp with sleep again. "Up, up, sire," he ushered, drawing nearer to Arthur's bed. There was something peculiar about him like this. Ruthless with a sword, savvy with the words, and godlike with the women, Arthur Pendragon slept like a caterpillar-esque little boy. He wasn't prepared for a feast, or veiled by the stonily sarcastic mask he wore so often. Arthur was human while he was sleeping. A peasant, Merlin concluded, even though that might be a bit of a stretch. Because even in sleep, the young prince seemed to know his place in the world; it was all in the haughty and royal way he held his nose and chin up.

"Your voice is too bloody loud," Arthur said groaningly, putting his face into his pillow. He felt as if he'd been head butted by a horse. Numerous, painful, times. The night before was hazy in all regards, but maybe it was better that way…

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," Merlin replied, raising his voice up a notch. Toying with a delirious Arthur was simply too tempting to pass up.

"You're practically screaming," the prince's unmoving form whined. Merlin rolled his eyes. He hadn't been loud enough to even wake the little mouse that had made its home in Arthur's chambers. Speaking of which, Merlin had still failed to mention the little fellow's presence to his prince.

"Is this better?" His tone was a whisper now. It was partly as a joke—Merlin was ready to burst into bellowing song at any moment—but it was also out of mercy. He didn't know why, but he craved Arthur's approval; his attention.

"Shh, no. Silence. Silence would be ideal." Arthur shifted under his covers though, possibly about to attempt getting up. There was a moment of hesitation when the prince considered it, but he then allowed his body to fall completely into the bed again.

"Sire," Merlin began slowly, "how much did you actually drink last night?" The question came out awkwardly, but it was as good a time as any to bring it up. Before Arthur became- well, Arthur again. He leaned against one of the bedposts. The perk to having a confused and hung-over master, was the he was much more lax with his rules. Granted, the poor prince didn't exactly know if he was in reality or some alternate universe where unicorns did ballet, but Merlin still decided to take advantage of the situation.

Arthur lied on his cheek, facing Merlin with a glare. "Enough to make the sun burn my eyes," he grumbled, keeping his eyes from the window.

"The sun's not up yet," was Merlin's matter-of-fact reply. Bitter almost, it sounded. The prince had given him very specific orders: 'wake me up at four-thirty sharp, or your new job will be tending to the horses' stables when you're not in the stocks.' So, here Merlin was, four-thirty in the morning, attempting to drag his threatening master out of bed.

"Precisely," Arthur returned, scrunching his eyes closed yet again. Merlin was beginning to panic. He had no desire to be Stable Boy by day, Fruit Target by night.

"Arthur, you're going to be late for training," he replied almost pleadingly. He was standing over the blonde haired boy now, unwilling to give up.

"I don't want to go," he moaned, face-planting his head into the massive white pillow. What Merlin would give to try out a pillow like that…

"No, no, sire, you have to get up!" Merlin's eyes darted around the room for a moment or two. He had to stand his ground. Sucking in air sharply, he built up his boldness. "You're getting out of this bed one way or another."

"You're an intolerable little squirrel." Arthur's eyelids were barely open, a majority of the skin covering his splendid sapphire eyes. Merlin almost felt bad for the guy. So much pressure, too many duties, and a level of maturity needed, that no twenty year old could ever hope to reach. But the memories of all the rotten fruit chucked at him while in the stocks kept the young sorcerer from pitying Arthur entirely.

Sighing stridently, Merlin drew back a hand, and whacked it in the direction of Arthur's head. It smacked the middle of his skull with a thud.

Arthur looked up furiously towards the manservant, almost lunging himself off of the bed, and at Merlin's throat. "Ow!" Damn, the boy actually wasn't half bad with a swing.

"I told you, sire," Merlin said holding back a snicker, "you'd get up one way or another." Arthur was now sitting upright in bed, placing a hand on his anguished head. The prince the world was used to seeing was slowly making his comeback.

"You've been demoted to a chipmunk, Merlin," he growled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, with intent to nail Merlin right in the shin. Success.

He seethed momentarily, before replying weakly. "Well, as long as you're up." Merlin grimaced, trying his best not to reach down and baby the black and blue mark he was sure was forming.

Arthur's posture slumped even further. "Who would arrange a training session for _this _early in the morning?" He gazed dumbly around the room. "Is it even morning yet?" The prince was literally out of his mind.

"Technically, no," Merlin returned, scratching the back of his head, "and um, you did, sire." He'd get put in the stocks; he just knew it. And the townspeople were sure to have plenty of fruit and vegetables to throw at him—despite the coming winter.

"Compromise, shall we? I'll get up and go to… _training_, if you swear not to talk anymore." His hand was still lingering over his forehead, as he looked up to Merlin, bleary eyed.

"Sire—"

Arthur shook his head slowly, careful not to rattle his brain any further. "A nod of the head will suffice." Merlin's lips became a closed thin and straight line for a moment, before he finally gave the prince a nod. And with that, Arthur slowly eased himself off of the bed, his head beginning to feel like even more of a bolder.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, the effects of the alcohol were wearing off. By no stretch of the imagination was Arthur prepared for a full out training session, but he'd be able to get by. He hoped. Uther was sure to keep tabs on him, with such a close and old friend in court, so he knew there was no room for failure. Not that there was ever much leeway for making mistakes—being human. Suppressing a little groan, he continued down the hallway. There were window-like openings in the wall that gave hint to the weather right outdoors. All signs pointed to a crisp morning: a chilly fog holding tightly to grass with a firm fleetingness, and a sun that was probably to be hidden behind heavy gray clouds for a majority of the day.

The first indicators of winter.

December was swiftly creeping up on Camelot. As everyone cowered with worried paranoia, Arthur waited anxiously. He'd missed the snow, while the scorching summer and warm autumn months were in season. Rolling up one of his red sleeves, he ran a hand over his goose-bumped forearm. The skin was dotted with the pure intentions of lulling the cold inside of Arthur's body; yet he felt not a single gust of ice. In fact, he was overheated. He lifted a cold hand to his forehead, and wiped his bangs off his forehead; he was almost breaking a sweat. In the last week of November, Arthur was in his own personal July.

His eyes were locked to the ground, his eyelids beginning to beg him once more to go back to bed. His conscience wouldn't allow him though. He had a duty to his king; his knights; himself. Damn duty.

"I don't believe you'll find your sobriety lying on the floor, Arthur."

The prince stopped, straightening his posture as best he could, and lifted his eyes to the speaker. "Morgana," he replied tiredly. It was somewhere between a lagging warning and worried consideration. Morgana felt her body still tingling from the abruptness of her awakening. "What are you doing up at such an hour?"

"I was going to ask you the same question. Knowing you, I would have suspected you to sleep until dusk." The unspoken commentary concerning Arthur's bouts of infatuation with alcohol was not lost to the prince.

"In a perfect world, perhaps, but here, training does not cease on account of me." He wrapped his right hand around his left wrist, pulling both to his hip. Morgana eyed her friend carefully. Arthur was never one to be shy—not in stance, not in character. Looking at him now though, the green eyed girl couldn't help but find him tragically withdrawn.

"I find that very hard to believe," she returned dryly, taking a step closer to him. If it wasn't for her pride, she would hug him. Suggest a wonderful remedy for a hangover (introduced to her by the lovely Gaius. Although she rarely drank, the times that she did caused for desperate measures.). Alas, Arthur had been a royal jackass at the feast, and she couldn't allow herself to forgive him so easily.

"I don't care if you find me narcissistic, or whatever your word of the day is for me, just as long as I make _something _in your day difficult." He gave her a lazy smirk. As much as Arthur enjoyed the banter, he had to admit the times they were in harmony were his favorite. Both so strong willed and stubborn, the periods of peace reminded him that there could be a good and simple side to magic.

"I'm glad to see your snarky remarks remain intact despite your whirlwind of a night," Morgana drawled, crossing her arms over her purple trimmed dress. The rest was a sort of ivory-gray, accentuating the darkness of her perfectly curled hair. Arthur wondered if she always looked this magnificent when she first woke up. He was sure she did. One day maybe, he'd be able to see if his imaginations were true.

"Some things never die," he replied blandly. He knew very well that he should be getting to his knights. But something about Morgana compelled him to stay. He didn't mind in the slightest. He paused before continuing. "You never did tell me why you awoke at this ungodly hour." Arthur's blue eyes looked at her curiously. Despite the fogginess that still lingered faintly in the irises, Morgana had never seen them clearer. They always looked most brilliant in the winter.

"It was too cold to sleep," she admitted, turning her face slightly from Arthur. He noticed the rosy flush that had blushed onto her cheeks. It gave her high cheekbones even more emphasis. Morgana had the true face of a queen. He could only imagine how breathtaking her head would look in a crown of gold.

"Too cold?" Arthur echoed, strategically holding back a laugh. "If I remember correctly, you have at _least_ six fur blankets to keep you warm." An amused look cantered onto Arthur's face when Morgana looked up to him awkwardly.

"Only four," she muttered, a small smile growing involuntarily on her face.

"_Only _four. Yes, that is completely reasonable." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"You think I am spoiled? Try asking the peasants' opinion of _your_ excessiveness."

Arthur only smiled mischievously. "Ha! So you do admit you're spoiled!"

"I said nothing of the sort, Arthur," she bit out quickly.

"Admit it, Morgana. You are just as bratty as you claim me to be." The shy stance was gone entirely, along with his headache. He raised an eyebrow at Morgana.

"Don't you have somewhere to be," she growled. The king's ward was in no mood for Arthur's antics. Not this early, anyway.

"We were just beginning to have fun," the prince whined jokingly. She wanted nothing more than to hate him; resist him; be angered with him. Anything, other than the butterflies she felt every time she looked at him. He embodied autumn: his hair as brilliantly yellow as the leaves; skin as pale as the gray sky against red tops of trees; glowing with the marvels only October could supply. Yet he was a man of December. It didn't connect. Harmonious discord.

"Go," Morgana said sharply, and Arthur didn't retaliate. With a dramatic sigh he walked by her, the scent of damp wood and pine needles catching her attention.

* * *

Merlin closed the door to Gaius' quarters with his back. Arthur was tiring him out. Both physically and mentally, the Pendragon prince was draining. Tapping heavy fingers on the wooden object he still leaned against, he saw Gaius coming down the stairs. Merlin was mildly surprised to see Gaius up _this _prematurely.

"Ah, Merlin," Gaius said, "I didn't expect you to be back so… early." The old man raised an eyebrow. It was goodhearted of course, though.

"Arthur got out of bed a lot sooner than I thought he would," Merlin returned with a shrug. He smiled weakly at his caretaker. Exhausted beyond sanity, all the young sorcerer wanted to do was sleep. With Arthur's shenanigans at the feast and this morning, Merlin had had little time to do anything but anticipate his master's next move. The prince was _so _needy.

"You have a bit of free time then, yes?" Gaius said it almost soothingly. Merlin nodded in relief. Finally, he could sleep. "Good. I need some herbs from the market, if you wouldn't mind running to get them."

His face fell. _No, Gaius, no_. But he knew he couldn't say no. Merlin was a complaint person; not one to cause a scene based on something so petty. He'd get the herbs, make Gaius happy, and then be able to sleep peacefully. Yes, that would be the plan. Unless Arthur suddenly called upon him. _God, Arthur_, Merlin groaned in his head. Somehow it always came down to him. No matter what, it was all tied to Arthur Pendragon.

"No I don't mind at all, Gaius," he replied gratefully. Merlin owed so much to the physician. So what were a few herbs and hours of less sleep among friends, right? _Right_? Rubbing the back of his head, he enclosed his fingers around the money Gaius had placed in his palm. "Which do you need?"

"Well," returned the physician in great thought, "there are many that I am out of, actually." That was never a good way to start out a shopping list…

"Oh," Merlin choked out, trying to hide his disappointment as best as possible.

"Coriander,Chervil, Anise, Arnica, Burnet Saxifrage, and Centaury ought to do it," Gaius returned with a satisfied nod. Merlin morphed his grimace into a polite nod.

"What is Coriander for?" Merlin asked. He'd never heard of that herb; and he had gone on many a trip for Gaius and his supplies.

"The Lady Morgana," the old physician returned simply, slightly peeved at the fact Merlin was still standing there. He had a lot of work to do today. "It is to ease her sleeplessness."

"And it works?" Merlin raised an eyebrow. He hadn't been getting as much sleep as he hoped for. If the Coriander really was affective, he might take some for himself.

"Of course it works, Merlin, I have been using it for years." Gaius looked to his friend, and gave him a withering stare. It wasn't completely obvious, but Merlin could pinpoint it in the far corner of the man's eye. "Now, will you please go? Camelot does not have all day to wait for my remedies."

"Right, sorry," he mumbled in return, walking promptly to the door, and out of the small living space. Walking through the few hallways before the exit, Merlin was somewhat worried about his confidant. Gaius was rarely frazzled or urgently pressuring, unless there was something the matter. Merlin racked his brain for something that could cause his friend to become so un-Gaius-like, but nothing sparked to mind. Winter was slowly approaching (well, more like quickly, seeing as November was almost at its end), so understandably citizens were stocking up on their potions and medicines. But enough to make even Gaius mad out of his mind? It was possible Merlin supposed, yet the probability of that being the case was still very low.

Merlin continued on down the massive set of stairs that led into the town. People were bustling about; wheeling carts full of food, clothing, armor… it was a crazed mess of everything in the definition of 'civilization'. The sorcerer was utterly overwhelmed. Preparations for winter were always stressful times in Eldeor, but Camelot was some sort of nightmare. The fear people harbored for the coldest months were shocking to put it mildly. Whatever happened to make the citizens so apprehensive had to have been a real catastrophe.

Reaching the small kiosk that sold the herbs, Merlin smiled at the vendor. The scruffy man had at least two layers of dirt coating his face (God, Merlin hoped it was dirt…), his hair more akin to dreadlocks. Yet Tor had been a helpful man to Gaius for years—there was no need for Merlin to scrutinize him. Placing the money on the table, the sorcerer watched as the silver flashed momentarily, blocking out the Pendragon family crest.

"What will it be today?" Tor asked, beginning to ease a finger towards the money. Merlin just widened his smile at the man's actions.

"Coriander, uh, Anise, Burnet Saxifrage, and err, Arnica." Merlin knew he was forgetting something; but his mind was too tired to conjure the list. Tor nodded, and grabbed two of the herbs from a hanging rack, and then stuck his head under the kiosk, grabbing the other two requests. Wrapping the materials in a brown little weaved bag, he slid it over to Merlin. The younger man responded by handing over the money.

"Thank you, Tor," he said brightly, beginning to walk away.

"Your change?" Tor asked confused.

"Keep it," Merlin said. Turning back around, he continued to walk away with his herbs.

It was when he reached the open court outside of the castle that he saw them.

Pleading with one of the many guards stationed at the entrances, the tall redhead looked about ready to fall to his knees. The younger boy that stood close to him was overwhelmed by the dark coat he wore: it was almost as black as his hair. Merlin walked up to the three of them, not entirely sure what he was doing.

"As I've said," the guard bit out in irritation, "no commoners are permitted inside the castle." He spun the spear he held, allowing the sun to catch the shine of the metal.

"Please, I must speak with the king." The redhead's grassy green eyes shimmered with tiredness and pain.

"What seems to be the problem?" Merlin asked innocently. All three parties turned to look at him. No one seemed to enjoy his presence. Well, as long as they agreed on something.

"Piss off, Merlin," the guard grumbled. Arthur had told Merlin on many occasions how he was astonished that his father had ever knighted Nudd. Yet here the guard stood, not allowing the two boys to pass.

The red and black haired boys gave Merlin pleading stares. The sorcerer knew he couldn't leave them. "Prince Arthur has requested an audience with these two men, Nudd. Let them pass. Or shall I tell Arthur that you are the reason they didn't show up?"

Nudd sighed grudgingly, moving his spear away from the entrance, and allowing the three of them through.

Once a far enough distance from the guard, the older boy looked to Merlin. "Thank you, sir. I am eternally grateful." His smile was genuine. Merlin still kicked himself for being so trustworthy, but the man seemed to have nothing. Something about the redhead told Merlin his presence was more of a blessing than an omen.

"Not a problem," he replied quietly. "My name's Merlin, by the way." He held out his hand.

"Gawain, and this is my brother Bran." Gawain shook Merlin's hand, and Bran gave a small wave.

"Nice to meet both of you," Merlin said, still uneasy about the whole situation. "So what business do you have with the king?" He raised a curious eyebrow.

"Our town was destroyed," Gawain said in a devastated voice, "we came to ask the king to enhance his security in the far regions of the kingdom."

Merlin stared numbly at them. He had never heard of a group actually succeeding in taking down any town, city, or countryside during Uther's rule. A sickening feeling creeped into his stomach.

* * *

School has been sucking the time and life out of me, so I'm sorry this update is a little late. Though not much happened in this chapter, it's a slow build up—I promise it will get more exciting. Haha. (Also, if the whole Gawain thing happened too abruptly, it was sort of meant to be that way). I hope everyone's weekend is going well, and that you enjoyed the chapter!

_Reviews are love_


	4. Ships Are Left to Rust

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Four _

'_Ships Are Left to Rust' _

_Disclaimer: _I don't own _Merlin_, but I wouldn't mind paying BBC a large sum of money for Arthur, haha.

He stared Gawain, taking in the flicks of auburn that spread themselves out over his mass of purely orange hair. Merlin had never seen anything quite like it. It was utterly fascinating: like an explosion of muted fire. But fire was never _that _tame—especially not to the extent the redhead's hair was. What Merlin was still hung up on though, was the fact that it was set in a more orderly fashion than Arthur's. And the Pendragon was a _prince_, for heaven's sake. But then again, it was Arthur; he wasn't known for his refined civility. Gawain caught Merlin's glance, his green eyes meeting Merlin's blue. The sorcerer still didn't trust his companions, but he figured sticking with them was a better option than leaving them to their devices. At least this way, he could keep an eye on them. (Of course in _dear_ Arthur's eyes, Merlin couldn't even keep a carrot safe. He'd prove the prince wrong, though. He had to.)

"I know it's hard to trust us," Gawain said quietly, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The material was frayed. Beautiful, but painfully tattered. Merlin wondered the story behind such a piece of clothing. Gawain seemed to be a pretty well off man—surely he'd be able to afford a new cloak. Maybe there was a story behind his.

Merlin looked to Gawain, shock sweeping momentarily onto his face. "Uh, wh—what?" He bit the inside of his cheek. "No, no, of course not, I'm—"

"There is no need to make excuses. I wouldn't trust me or Bran either, if I were in your position." Gawain paused, eyeing Merlin with a hint of curiosity. "Given that, why _did _you help us? You were not inclined to in the slightest." The sorcerer felt as if he'd been pelted by rocks left and right. Gawain really was a proper and chivalrous type—it almost made him prefer Arthur and his immaturity. _Almost. _

"Inclined or not, you two needed help. It was the right thing to do." Merlin gave the cloaked companions a small shrug of the shoulders. It was simple; he had had no choice but to help. That was just the type of person he was.

"Thank you," Bran said softly, and Merlin turned quickly to face the boy. It was the first time he'd talked since they'd begun to walk towards the castle. His voice was peaceful: almost through with puberty, soft, and delicate in a way quite akin to the sound of silk sliding across steel. Bran was a curious one. Elegant to say the least, his dark hair hitting just below his ears with a certain shine Merlin couldn't quite put into words, and eyes as thick and complex as mixing blood with milk in a golden chalice. Skin as pale as ice and freckle-free, he was everything his brother wasn't. Both foreigners though, had the same facial structure: sharp cheekbones, although Bran's were set higher than Gawain's, rounded chins that protruded forward with no intent to come across as soft, and noses angled with a stern line of purpose. The faces of royalty.

"Not a problem," Merlin replied with a friendly smile. Bran didn't seem much younger than him, but his shyness deducted at least three years from his approximate age. The manservant guessed the boy to be around fifteen.

"Yes, thank you," Gawain chimed in, confident and unfaltering, "you really did do us a great favor. I cannot even begin to think of how to repay you." He supplied a polite smile, his green eyes dancing brightly. It was beginning to irk Merlin. Maybe that's why Arthur acted the way he did—it'd be better to be a nuisance of clever character than of stereotypical chivalry. But he couldn't deny that Gawain was pleasant company. Merlin was more taken with Bran, though. He had always gravitated toward the more reserved of people.

"You don't need to repay me," Merlin replied, beginning to feel obsolete in his style of manners. "Just as long as Camelot's walls are still standing when you leave, consider us even." He laughed a little, to hide the dark warning of his comment. Because as much as he hated some of the kingdom's laws and citizens, Camelot was his home now; and no one was going to destroy it. Not as long as Merlin still lived within its borders.

"We would never think of such a thing." Gawain looked to Bran. "Actually, we were hoping we could stay in Camelot. Perhaps not forever, but a substantial amount of time." His face darkened slightly. "Bran and I don't have much of a home to return to."

Merlin sighed sympathetically. "I'm sorry for what happened," he began, "no one should have to watch their home being destroyed. If you don't mind me asking though, what exactly did happen?" He hated to pester and prod, but he was too curious not to ask. Gawain didn't seem offended by the question in the slightest, and Bran was as hard to read as looking at Greek in the dark, while being blind. His eyes supplied nothing but mystery.

"To be honest with you, Merlin, I'm not quite sure. It all happened so fast—very odd, though." Gawain stopped a moment, as if replaying the scene in his head. He had a very interesting thinking face. "It spread too fast for a wildfire.."

"A fire is what got your home?"Merlin raised an eyebrow. If it was a natural cause, then why were Gawain and Bran all the way in Camelot to bring the issue to the king? Unless it was magic…

"Yes," Bran piped in almost inaudibly. Merlin shifted his eyes to the shorter boy.

"Then why are you in Camelot? Surely you can rebuild."

It was Gawain who answered. "The fire wasn't natural. It simply couldn't have been. It wasn't fire season in Cathor." Merlin observed the fascinatingly hair colored man with hesitation. He acted quite strange around the matter of his town. Not that that was out of the ordinary, it just seemed like a reaction that would not pair harmoniously with Gawain.

"So, you think it was bandits that started it?" Merlin kept the idea of sorcery under lock and key. They were too close to the castle doors to mention the possibility, and he didn't want to plant the seed in Bran or Gawain's head.

"All I know, Merlin, is that someone needs to defend Cathor. I don't know if we will be able to face another nightmare like this. If King Uther will not supply us with men, then I will have to protect it myself." He was determined. Frighteningly so.

"What do you plan to do?" Whatever Gawain was thinking, it didn't seem to be good, in Merlin's mind.

"Prince Arthur manages the knights. Surely they could use more able bodies, and I want to learn."

"Go to Arthur," Merlin replied, shock, bitterness, anger, and acceptance all flooding into one massive wave of emotion. Gawain was literally mad. There was no way Arthur, let alone Uther, would allow a man of peasant-born status to join the Knights of Camelot. It simply could not be done. Even Merlin knew that, and he defied almost all laws set by King Uther. This one though, was set in stone. Both father and son had made it painfully clear.

"Yes," Gawain confirmed. "I am fine enough with a sword, but I would have no hope of defending Cathor against intruders. If Prince Arthur really does love his people as much as rumor claims, then he should have no issue with allowing me to train with them."

Merlin sighed heavily. "If only it was that easy, Gawain. Arthur may love his people, but law trumps the prince. Every time." It was a sad truth that Merlin hated to admit. It made his skin crawl with scorpions of submission.

"Nothing is forever," Gawain returned. "I will make my attempt at swaying the prince."

He was going to reply with some remark Uther would applaud him graciously for, but Merlin decided against it. "You don't happen to be of noble blood, do you?"

Gawain set his jaw tightly. "No, sadly in the eyes of the king, I would be no more than a peasant."

"Wain," Bran whispered to his brother, "I'm hungry." Although the boy was a quiet one, Merlin could still hear his complaint. At least they were off the subject of Arthur and the laws. The two topics were always lethal to Merlin's peaceful personality— especially when mixed.

"Hush Bran, not now. We will soon though. Promise." Gawain's pride seemed wounded. Right in the middle of his epic decision to face the acclaimed prince of Camelot, Bran had reminded him of his place in the world— their less than favorable situation.

"You two must be starving after your journey," Merlin said, partly pretending not to have noticed the back and forth between the brothers. "Let's get you some food. You can't convince the prince of anything with a rumbling stomach." He felt like a mother; a goddamn mother, breaking up a tense atmosphere with the offering of food.

Gawain gave him a look that wasn't quite a glare, but it was close enough for Merlin. The sorcerer knew Gawain was far from done on the subject of becoming a knight, but at least it was postponed.

"Thank you," Bran replied. For once, Gawain remained silent. Maybe he wasn't as chivalrous as Merlin had originally thought.

Speeding up their pace, he led the two in the direction of the door to the kitchen.

* * *

"Shh," Merlin commanded, his eyes darting back and forth before he opened the backdoor. The Camelot guards never looked kindly on people entering the castle that were not supposed to. The trick was not to formulate a good reason or excuse; it was not to get caught. Not even glanced at. Uther could be an understanding man when in the comfort of his own chambers or Solar, but while he prowled the haunting Camelot halls, the king was cold, black, unwavering ice.

The coast looked clear, so he quickly swung the piece of wood open, pulling Bran and Gawain into the kitchen swiftly. It was surprising how agile Merlin could be when the situation depended on it. _Take that, Arthur. _

The kitchen was swarming with people. Servants, maids, cooks, stable boys… everyone seemed to take refuge in the little area for one reason or another. At least the excessive amounts of body heat in an already boiling room would keep them warm. Merlin looked to Bran: the boy was still pale to a worrisome extent, and shivering uncontrollably in his massive cloak. Bran certainly wasn't a boy of the winter. Just like Merlin.

Gawain and Bran both looked around eagerly for food, and Merlin broke his gaze from the younger child, focusing on tracking down a lone plate of food, or stranded piece of bread.

In his search, Merlin's eyes fell upon Gwen. Her crazy curly hair was tied up in her usual lazy bun, strands flying in every which direction. The sorcerer didn't know why she even insisted on tying it up in the first place. In the first few hours of work, it was basically all falling out. But that wasn't why—he wanted her hair down, because he could imagine how wondrous it looked, all flooding around her face in a cascade of black curl. He longed to see the ringlets fall just above her breasts, and accentuate the prominence of her collarbone. But for now, all Merlin could do was dream. And for now, he was okay with that. Gwen was an innocent flower; he shouldn't degrade her with his lustful stares. Blinking, he breathed in deeply to disperse all thoughts chastity would disapprove of, and made his way over to Gwen, Bran and Gawain following close behind.

"Gwen," Merlin greeted, coming up behind her. He watched as her shoulders tensed from behind her wall of lavender dress, and bit the inside of his cheek. She turned to face him, of course recognizing his voice, her brilliant smile shining in rivalry with her caramel eyes. If looks could kill.

"Merlin," she returned with the flustered nervousness he loved so much about her, "what are you doing down here?" Merlin was not known to spend much time in the kitchen, let alone at this time during the day. Usually, he was off running some ridiculous errand for Arthur or Gaius.

Merlin didn't reply with words, just gave her a simplistic smile, turning his head and situating his gaze in the direction of Bran and Gawain. Gwen followed his marvelous sapphire eyes, meeting the orange and black heads behind him. Her breath caught in her throat awkwardly.

"Who—who are they?" She was obviously flustered. For as long as Merlin had known her, she'd been a rule follower. Quick to be loyal, much slower to defy. The laws of Uther Pendragon whispered harshly in the back of her mind, but then she looked to Merlin again, and all her anxiety and paranoia morphed into nothing but loving admiration. He was so bold. If not in stature, then in personality. He was one of the strongest people she knew. If Merlin decreed these two worth helping, then she'd be nothing but supportive.

"I am Gawain of Cathor," the redhead answered proudly. Merlin suppressed an eye roll. He made it sound as if he was some gallant knight—in his dreams perhaps, but he had no right to deceive Gwen. She didn't deserve it in the slightest. But as Merlin looked at Gawain's waltzing green eyes, they showed nothing but the deepest respect… and were directed right at Gwen.

He tried not to feel bitter. Really, he did. The amount of success he had was very minimal, alas.

Gwen curtsied. "Sir Gawain," she said blithely. Her tone was what Merlin imagined the ocean to sound like if it had a voice. By the look spewed dumbly across Gawain's face, he knew his new mate had not let her elegance go unnoticed.

Bran gave a little laugh. Almost what a raven would be like if it possessed a sense of humor. Merlin turned his head in the direction of the boy, not able to hold back a smile. The sorcerer grinned along with him. Gwen looked between the two, hovering longer on Merlin's face, utter confusion perverting her usual radiance. Gawain was painfully embarrassed.

"We're not lords, my lady," Bran said with a smile. That was the most Merlin had ever heard him talk. Gwen set her gaze on him with an air of motherly care. The look was splendid on her—like it was supposed to be there; no questions asked, just purely her nature.

Gwen disregarded the 'lord' business. "And who are you?" She gave a kind smirk. Only Gwen could possess such a look. Merlin sighed inwardly. Bran's eyes locked with hers.

"Bran, my lady," he said, shyness making its home comfortably in his tone. Gwen let out a giggle. A giggle that conveyed a welcoming to Bran; a subtle reassurance.

"Well Bran, I'm Gwen. No need for 'my lady'. I am simply a maid." She crossed her arms over her lower chest, cradling an elbow in each hand. Gwen's smile was still brilliantly swaying on her features.

"She's not simply anything," Merlin added eagerly, determined to give Gwen the credit she deserved. "Gwen is handmaiden to the king's ward Morgana. That is no job to look down upon. And she does it so well."

He needed to stop, before anything stupid or dangerously romantic exited his mouth. A whisper of a kiss lingered in the right hand corner of her lips. One day, it'd be his kiss that would be planted ever so delicately there. Then he'd travel to her cheek, then her cute nose, and then to her forehead. Every innocent place on her perfect body would have his touch. _One day, _Merlin thought.

"Merlin," she said embarrassed, her cheeks turning slightly red, and she dropped her gaze from the three of them. "He gives me too much credit, I assure you." And with that her smile was back in place, leaving Merlin awestricken as always.

"I am sure he speaks nothing but the truth," Gawain returned, taking a step closer to Merlin and Gwen who were now standing next to each other. He gave Merlin a look, silently asking where his food was. The servant was jolted from his thoughts.

"Oh," Merlin said after Gwen had smiled at Gawain's compliment, "Bran and Gawain have had quite a long ride. They're pretty hungry." Gwen wasted no time with formalities, and walked around the table they were all standing by, and going through the door that led to the pantry.

The two Cathor boys began shedding their layers, the room now becoming too hot for even the once shivering Bran. Merlin gave a vacant gaze, before leading them to one of the small wooden tables in the corner of the room.

* * *

He'd been summoned to the Throne Room by his father. Uther had taken him from training, without as much as a warning, a lanky guard escorting him all the way to the Room. He hated when his father did this. Arthur was not a boy any longer, who could just be beckoned at any point the king desired. He was a twenty year old prince; and a stubborn one at that. Yet he still walked loyally through the doors, holding his head up high for his father.

The guards closed the doors behind him quietly, leaving father and son alone in the Throne room.

Uther sat in his chair, in a position quite acceptable for a king: but not for King Uther. He took image far stricter than any other realm. But today his posture sagged slightly, and his left arm rested lazily on the elegant armrest of his throne. Uther almost appeared to be a king of reason and adaptability.

"You wanted to see me, father?" Arthur's voice was dry, between the distain, hangover, and tiredness. His cobalt eyes were glazed over with a kind of boredom only Morgana would understand and pick up on. She was the one who taught the look to him in the first place.

The king shifted a tad in his chair, straightening up ever so slightly. "Yes," he began in his gravelly cold voice. Even towards those he loved, he was a man no more accepting than a rock. Arthur bit his lower lip. "You remember Lord Mador, do you not?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Of course," he returned confused. Mador was one of Uther's closest friends. Arthur would have had to be a hermit for the past twenty years not to know that. He stepped closer to his father's throne. The graying sky cast an unsettling shadow on the king.

"His son, Cador, wishes to become a Knight of Camelot."

"What a wonderful aspiration," Arthur replied almost choking on the words. He didn't enjoy the formalities that came with talking to the king, nor did he care for Mador and Cador: Tweedledumb and Tweedledee. "When he becomes of age, I hope to see him at Observation." He didn't know what point his father was trying to make, but the king seemed to be in one of those moods where asking superfluous questions like 'what are you getting at' was a severe as saying you practiced witchcraft. Arthur waited for his father's reply.

"He wants to be an apprentice of the Knights, Arthur," Uther replied as if it was obvious common knowledge. The king was such a pushover when it came to matters of Mador. The man had helped him to defeat the sorcerers in the Confrontation of the Solstice, but he had done little since that night. Uther seemed to ignore that fact.

"The boy is only sixteen, father, he cannot join the Knights; by _law_." He emphasized the last word, since it had been Uther to set that rule. Arthur crossed his arms. Cador was enough of a nuisance as it was, walking the halls of Camelot, being nothing but a miniature version of his gossiping, power-hungry father.

"He will be seventeen soon," Uther returned.

"I cannot make an exception father. The rules are the rules." His face was firmer than the steel of his favorite sword. Uther eyed him, with an expression foreign to Arthur.

"I command you to for Cador. He will be a fine knight." Uther raised himself higher in his throne. His son tried not to sigh.

"When he turns seventeen, he may very well be a good knight." Arthur paused. "Father, the Knights are mine to control." That sentence said it all. He had some power over his father. And Uther _loathed _anyone taking a power that could be his.

"I can very easily strip you of that," Uther threatened. Arthur bit his lip harder this time. His father had always scolded him for doing that.

"A king has not taken the command of the knights from an heir in centuries." His father wouldn't dare. Arthur had been the reason for the Knights of Camelot's wonderful reputation. Uther would have to be a fool to take that from him. Camelot would be as good as defenseless.

"Do not test me, Arthur," Uther warned. "Allow Cador to train with you and your knights, or the military will be solely mine."

Arthur toyed with the idea of defying his father even farther, or storming from the room without so much as a reply. But he did neither. He may be the most skillful and valiant knight in all of the realm, but Uther was still king. That crown was worth ten times the power Arthur could gain through his sword. "Yes, father," he grumbled in submission. He was fuming on the inside.

His skin was on fire with rage, his heart enveloped in a permafrost of hate. Arthur Pendragon was steaming with such a fury, he turned quickly on his heel, whipping the two massive doors open before the guards had time to react.

Arthur sped down the corridors not caring in the slightest who saw him in this animalistic state. That had been that last straw. Uther was no more than a tyrant. Even to his own son. _Enough. _

Morgana exited the small dining room where she had just eaten alone, and noticed Arthur flying down the hallway with such a wrath, one would think he was out to destroy all of humanity. She knew him better than that though. She knew Arthur would not act this way unless there truly was a meaning for it. He wasn't as brutish as some would speculate.

"Your quarrel isn't with the ground," Morgana said, eyeing his feet that were stomping harshly on the stone floor. Arthur stopped dead in his tracks and glared at her with such darkness, she'd swear it had brutally transformed into midnight.

"Morgana," his voice was hatred warning, "not now." He began to move past her, but she stood her ground, moving more to the center of the hall.

"Yes now," she said insistently, "it's better to work out issues with words rather than fists."

His glare was growing deeper. "Oh, how sweet," he cooed sardonically. "Good thing I'm using a sword instead then." Arthur brushed past her sharply, turning left into a dark corridor.

Morgana sighed in exasperation. If there was one thing Arthur and Uther Pendragon had in common, it was their fiery tempers. She could almost feel the heat still around her from Arthur's anger.

* * *

Sorry this update is so late guys, between English, Spanish, and Biology, I've had no time to write. Excuses, excuses, I know. But now that all that is out of the way, I have more time to dedicate to this story. Yay! I hope you all enjoyed it!

_Reviews are love_


	5. My Own Secret Ceremonials

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees _

_Five _

'_My Own Secret Ceremonials' _

Morgana stood there, watching Arthur's retreating form. A part of her wanted to follow him. But her mind advised her otherwise. When the prince was in a foul mood, it was best to leave him be. His sharp temper was nothing to dabble in, and if one chose that unfortunate path, the aftermath of their decision was nothing short of bloody. If not in physical abuse, than in mental. Arthur Pendragon could be the kindest of hearts, but the fiery demon that lay dormant in his temperate soul found ways of bleeding to the surface, burning all those around him. Morgana knew that very well. She'd felt the fire of Arthur, smelled the flames blazing on his breath. An entire army could not face the wrath of an angered Prince of Camelot. The world would end in scorching wildfire. And Arthur would watch, from his ice capped mountain of a place, sardonically laughing at the world that had tried to lull his temper. And so she stayed, watching as the golden blonde disappeared from her view; as if into smoke.

She traced an index finger down along her jawbone, contemplating the dragon of winter. His lips blood red like autumn leaves set aflame, his hair as shining as the sun's brilliance in the warmer months. Arthur's eyes were the thick blue of October sky, the sparkles dancing in them as mystical as the midnight stars. There was hardly a touch of winter in him. His skin, though. God, that perfect envelope of soft bliss the color of snow. That was what made him the child of the Winter Solstice.

The imaginary heat had died down around her, and the foggy haze of utter adornment had dispersed. It brought Morgana back to reality; a reality in which something had happened to cause Arthur to let his demon of fire out to play its dark, sadistic games.

That was when she thought of his smile. Filled with emotion eyes could only wish they had the power to convey. It was Arthur's goofy little grin, confident smirk, and genuine beam that would make him a marvelous politician and king. He had the power to manipulate feelings with that goddamn smile of his, and poke beckoningly at everyone's weakness: desire for acceptance. If Arthur really wanted to, he could earn anyone's trust; anyone's love; by just one flash of his expressive lips. Morgana had observed it for years. Observed how he could make friends out of Uther's longtime rivals, Camelot's most lethal of men, and the kingdom's many fair maidens. Arthur Pendragon had a kind of magic the king could never outlaw. Morgana longed for the day when the prince could finally become a king. Camelot would be a place of joy and prosperity, with the most secure borders in all of the world. Uther was a fine king, sure, but what the kingdom needed was an Arthur Pendragon. Despite his inner fire, the wondrous prince would deliver fruitful harmony to the land.

But that was years away. The idea of the crown encircling Arthur's head that was bred for royalty was still a very foreign idea. Even for Morgana, who bore nothing but undying loyalty for the prince, would feel uneasy about all the power being placed in his hands. He was still no more than twenty. Yet, Uther had been at the delicate age of nineteen when he succeeded his father. But Camelot could not bear two young kings in a row. No matter what potential Arthur may have.

Pulling on a strand of her hair, she shook her head. Arthur could not become king as long as the Winter Solstice hung over him and the kingdom. The dragons breathe fire on those who worship the moon. And the prince still possessed more qualities of the night than he did of the fire.

She began to walk thoughtlessly in his direction, retracing his steps with subconscious delicacy. Morgana stared at the stone floors, watching them come to life with the energy Arthur had sparked in them. The walls seemed to dance with epic murals of all King Arthur would accomplish. White and majestic gold replaced the gray and black, streaks of red seeming to coil around the pillars on either side of her. In her mind, he brought something to Camelot—something desperately needed. There was no deprivation in his presence. Only growth and rebirth: why she felt so youthful with him around.

Met with a case of stairs, Morgana stepped onto them easily, awaiting the grassy fields used for training. She changed her mind. She wanted to speak with Arthur. Whether it was the placid prince or the fiery one, Morgana didn't really mind. She wanted to help him, and that was that. Despite all he did to enrage her beyond belief, he kept pulling her back; his redeeming qualities reigning supreme over all the darkness he possessed. Her feet finally hit the grass, and she smiled slightly.

* * *

He whacked the stump of wood again with his sword, the steel sticking into the nature with certain force. Pulling it up and out of the crevice with ease, Arthur stared at the dent inflicted on the piece of wood. It formed Xs and zigzags along with the rest of the white marks amidst the dark brown. He followed the contours of the rounded edges, and traced the sharp tattoos drawn by the sword. Arthur wondered if someone was to open him up, what wounds they'd find on his heart; his bones. Would it look like the piece of wood he had just abused? Or would the scars be deeper, unseen to anyone but the person who bore them? His fingers clenched tighter around the Quillion of the sword. The handle felt heavy in his grasp, but he paid no mind to it. Lifting his right arm again over his head, he brought the blade of steel down lethally. It collided with the wood stronger this time. The intensity level was almost paralyzing. His arm shook with the emotion coursing through him.

It wasn't that Uther had insisted upon Cador practicing with the knights, or that he had disregarded his son's control over the military. Those were minor. Arthur had let those go minutes ago. What tore inside him was that he was insignificant. Uther seemed to have no purpose for him other than to threaten, reprimand, and use as a loyal knight. Arthur Pendragon barely felt like a prince. Yes the castle referred to him as 'Prince' or 'Sire', but the respect seemed to be absent from the equation. What good was it to be prince, if he was not even supported by the people? The sword was laborious in his hand now, and the stump smirked up at him darkly.

"Arthur," Morgana said quietly, careful not to surprise him too harshly. His sword never left his side. He could sense the raven haired beauty's presence before she even approached him. Arthur's fiery eyes lifted from the wood, and met her swaying green.

"Morgana," he replied somewhere in between an apology and an insist for her to leave. His lips were vacant. Not even a frown was noticeable. Morgana's heart sunk lower in her chest. "Please, not now."

He looked like a child. Too ashamed, too proud, too scared for anyone to question him. Morgana ran her tongue over her teeth.

"I just want to help. Hacking at a piece of wood isn't going to give you any answers." She crossed her arms and watched Arthur carefully. She could see his right arm shaking, or was it shivering, under his metal shoulder protector.

"And you are," he returned. He hadn't backed away from the brown object in front of him yet, but his hold loosened on the handle.

"Don't be difficult," she snapped before giving a sad smile. Arthur came back with no retort. "I don't know if I can give you answers, but I can help more than that will." Morgana motioned her head in the direction of the sword and the wood.

"I don't need help Morgana; I just want to be alone." It seemed a simple enough request, but Arthur was the type of man to thrive in the presence of others. The expression on his face worried her. It was something she had never seen before. Taking a step closer to him, she resisted the urge to reach out and touch his arm.

"Isolation you mean," Morgana said. There was no vibrancy in Arthur. Meaning was sucked out of him. She eyed him as he bit his lip. She'd always loved it when he did that.

"You make it sound so condemning," Arthur drawled, melancholy anger blending with relief. Morgana was with him. When no one else would come near him, she heeded to no one's warnings. Even his.

"That was your intent, wasn't it?" She raised an eyebrow. She longed for the blithe Arthur, the one full of jokes and life. He was a ball wrapped around her ankle with chains when he was like this. It pulled her down lower in some ways than it pulled himself down.

"My _intent _is to be alone. The stairs are right behind you—please use them." The demon was coming out. The wounded demon: the one that was the product of the slashes imposed by Uther Pendragon. Morgana ground her teeth, feeling her body begin to shake with Arthur's pain. It still shocked her that a person like Arthur could be born from a man like Uther. It made little to no sense to her. Deep down, she knew he loved his father—idolized him. But it was never smart to put a man like Uther on that high of a pedestal. It would never end well.

"Arthur, I'm not going to beg. If you don't want my counsel, I'm not going to force you. But I do want to help." Her smile became a little more light, and she took a step closer, placing her hand on his strong forearm. The muscles flexed uneasily beneath her touch as she lowered his arm that was raising his sword. The wood would not be stricken again. Not while she stood there beside him.

He breathed in shakily, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. His weakness was so near to him. Her chilled breath felt like heaven. A heaven where fire met ice in a docile gust.

"I know you do," Arthur whispered. He only spoke like this when he was at his most vulnerable. "But let me be." He took his arm away from Morgana's touch, careful not to let his sword graze her body. Arthur was falling apart inside. He wanted Morgana—more than even he would care to admit. Body and soul, he wanted her; craved her; needed her. But something kept him from reaching out to her. Instead, she outstretched her hand to him, her flesh feeling that of his wrist. The spark crackled on the steel in his hand, like lighting a match against a heap of explosive rocks. Morgana's eyes jolted down to the sword, her body frozen and stunned. She gave a subtle glance in Arthur's direction to see his sapphire eyes swirling with astonish and doubt.

Their eyes met, and neither moved. Neither seemed able to have much more strength than to stare. A tingling in his fingertips reminded him of what had just happened.

"What was that?" Morgana asked in hasty alarm. It was the first time she had ever looked at Arthur with legitimate fear. He shook his head, too scrambled to form any coherent words. She took her hand away from his, glancing everywhere but in his direction.

* * *

So first off, I hope this makes up for the lack of ArMor in the last chapter. I wanted to add more to this, but I have finals tomorrow, so I wanted to at least post something before I start cramming for dear life. Next chapter will be longer I promise, and have more of a plot. But I hope that no matter how all over the place this chapter is, you still enjoyed it. It takes me hours to write these chapters, and it'll only take you seconds to a minute to review. So please do so. And thank you all for the amazing support!

_Reviews are love_


	6. The Dragon Which Slays Love

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Six_

'_The Dragon Which Slays Love' _

Neither Arthur nor Morgana moved. She would not meet his eyes; he would not acknowledge her fear. They stood in a conflicted stalemate, the usual blitheness that flowed between them virtually nonexistent. Arthur tried to formulate a logical response for what had happened, but how was he to make logic out of sparks flying from a sword nowhere near a fire? Morgana's skin looked paler than usual, as he looked at her timidly, its natural glow sunken deep into her pores.

"I—" Arthur began to respond to her question, "I don't know. It must have been a trick of the imagination." That seemed to be the go-to excuse for anything scathing the boundary between the natural and supernatural. Morgana's green eyes flickered with what appeared to be doubt, and Arthur held his breath. He didn't need anything else going wrong for him today. Especially not with Morgana. The fire inside implored him to let the dainty little thing of a raven girl go—that she should be no matter of his. But Arthur would never give into the demon, especially when it came to the dear Lady.

"That was no trick Arthur," Morgana replied, backing up subtly. No one would have noticed her movements, but he did. He was sensitive to every little flutter of her hair, every twitch of her muscles. Arthur could pick up the wavering in her voice that shook when she said his name. Of all words, that had to be the one she stumbled on. It made it that much more personal; that much more real. He swallowed thickly.

"The sword must have had left over ash on it or something," he replied, trying to make light of the situation. Not that his personality was bright enough to pull it off at the moment, but he tried his best. It seemed to calm Morgana, if only for a flash.

"And it miraculously ignited again?" She raised an eyebrow, yet kept her stance still. At last she had recovered from the initial shock. He could feel the tingling lingering in his fingers, although faintly, and gripped his hand around the handle of his sword tighter. He didn't want to drop the thing, because it didn't seem to be the root of the problem. _But it had to be. _

"I was never one to pay attention during alchemy lessons Morgana," Arthur replied, some dance returning to his vacant ballroom of eyes. She noticed it the second the graceful little figures of shine reappeared, and felt oddly uneasy about it. It wasn't his eyes' normal movements. It seemed darker, more trudging—like it knew of the approaching coldness. But if that was really it, shouldn't Arthur's blue orbs be celebrating the cold months' return?

"No," she admitted, not hesitating in kindness, "you weren't." Morgana glanced at the sword still in his right hand. _Always his right. _It fit well in his firm grasp—it looked natural, but it seemed like something else should be in its place. Something that hadn't been taught to him over the years. Something that was naturally his.

A smiled formed on his face. A sad one at that, but it was better than his furrowed brow and fiery glares. His eyes had become a noticeable shade or two lighter, and he had transformed himself back into the prince Morgana was met with so often. It was an act, she knew, but she still applauded his ability to fool—fool even her; if only for a second. She wanted to continue the talk of what had happened with the sword, but the current state of Arthur's features kept her from doing anything of the sort. But he still wasn't off the hook for whatever had led him to the barren part of the training fields, so she figured to shift the subject to that would be best: something less touchy for the both of them. She hoped.

"I made up for it with my attentiveness to combat," Arthur said, his smile widening. He tapped his sword against his shin, and she couldn't get the image of the sparks out of her head. Morgana sighed; hopeful her next question wouldn't reawaken the dragon.

She supplied a polite laugh to his admittedly witty comment. "What was it that had you in a fury to begin with?" She posed the words calmly, slowly, softly, praying the fire would not return to scorch his white skin red.

Arthur bit his lip again, and reddened the flesh. She could still notice the bit of white that remained from where his teeth had been. "It seems silly in retrospect," he told her, something mirroring the vibe of self consciousness in his voice. She nodded at him, relieved that he was still Arthur. Her Arthur. Not the darkness'.

"You must have felt you had a justifiable reason for—"

"Hacking at a piece of wood?" Arthur gave her a shy, weak smile, hitting the side of the blade awkwardly against his leg. It kept the beat for the tiny dancers of sparkle in his eyes. Morgana sighed with a laugh, every thought of drunken Arthur, angered Arthur, and cocky Arthur leaving her mind. She swore he had some sort of spell over her. Morgana had never been the type to easily forgive and forget, but with Arthur, it was virtually impossible not to.

"When you put it that way, it's hard to dispute your comment about it being silly," she said. "But I'm sure your motive is reasonable enough."

Arthur took a breath in, feeling the chilly air entering his lungs. It gave him the strength he needed to become Prince Arthur again—the man without inhibitions, the man without reason to hesitate. "My father insists that Cador train with the Knights," he said, grudging loyalty blending with bitterness and annoyance. Morgana stared at him, trying not to show anything on her face but support.

"Lord Mador's son? He's not of age yet." She crossed her arms, and took a step towards him. It felt warmer already, her closing the distance between them ever so slightly.

"I told my father that. But the _king_ didn't want to hear it. He is so blinded by his past with Mador." Arthur's dialogue was morphing into more of a monologue with an audience. It had always been easiest for Morgana to figure out his deepest feelings when he was angry; it was the one time his guard was truly down. She still wondered whether that would become his rise or demise.

"When you're king, Arthur, you'll be able to change all of that. You can choose knights and lords and advisors based on merit, rather than history or custom." Just speaking of what King Arthur could be brought a smile to Morgana's face. She eyed her companion curiously to see his reaction, and immediately noticed the elegant ball-gowns of many hues flickering in his eyes of dancing color. The silk blues, purples, whites, and blacks bled together in a kind of mist that appears in a dream. It took all Morgana's strength to look away.

"When I'm king," he muttered, a dark chuckle following. "It's not close enough to be a reality, Morgana." Depression wasn't the right description to use. It was more of bleak existentialism—influenced by none other than the fire dragon within him. Arthur could act happy and free as much as he wanted to, but it could never lull the war inside him. The desire for heat; the need for cold. His personality was being torn to shreds by shards of ice and claws of dragons. Morgana's green eyes landed on his lips, and she watched as he exhaled. The breath came out chilled as frost, and fell towards the ground like a fluttering leaf in the wind.

"It _is _a reality. No ifs, ands, or buts. You will be king one day, and men like Mador will have no power but to shiver." Using her thumb and pointer finger, she took hold of his sleeve lightly, not daring to touch his actual body. The spark from the sword still hovered in the back of her mind. She was sure to grab hold of the material covering his left arm; his right was treacherous waters—it still clutched the sharp strip of steel.

"Well, he's not shivering yet," Arthur returned, still trying to dissect her true meaning, "and my father is still king."

Morgana ran her tongue over her teeth, moving the sleeve in her hand back and forth in thought. She was surprised he hadn't pulled it away from her yet. "Then what will you do?" She lifted her head, moving it to the right a tad to get a strand of her dark hair out of her eyes. The tranquil sea of turquoise flooded between them when blue eyes met green.

"I have no choice but to allow Cador to train," he said, defeat slipping oily from his words. Arthur could taste the vileness that sentence produced, but dutiful loyalty poured a pinch of artificial sweetener on the flavor, keeping him from taking back the statement.

"If that's what you've decided," Morgana returned with a shrug of the shoulders, finally allowing her fingers to let go of his sleeve. She felt kind of silly, keeping them there for so long. "But if you're not going to do anything to change the situation, then you have no reason to brood about it."

"I'm not brooding," Arthur shot back, not able to hold back the smile. He knew she was right; she was always right. It was because of Morgana that Arthur craved the warmth—wanted everything that went against his true nature. He was a defyer when she was near him. She compelled him to long for things that weren't innately his. _She _was teaching him how to become a king. Not a land, not a father, not himself—purely the Lady Morgana: ward of King Uther, friend of the maid Guinevere, and goddess in the eyes of Prince Arthur.

"Arthur," she said tauntingly, "the whining and brooding in your voice is so painfully obvious, even your conceited personality can't deny it." Tension was lifting rapidly now from the situation, and the waltzers in Arthur's eyes spun faster. Morgana wondered if he was a talented dancer; she hadn't seen him complete any moves other than combat maneuvers in years. When they were young, he could twirl her and make her giggle like no other boy in all of Camelot, and he had swayed to the music with such blitheness, he had become an elegant harp of his own, plucking at beauty no fingers or strings could ever accomplish. He was bigger now, stronger too—he could encircle her waist with ease that his awkward puberty-stricken body had not been able to. Oh, how she craved his touch.

"At least choose a word other than 'whining'. It's too—"

"Spot on?" Morgana raised a joking eyebrow, still feeling the uneasiness underneath her feet. It would take her some time to get over all of what had transpired in the past hour or so, she knew, she just hoped it was fast. She hated feeling distant from Arthur.

He rolled his eyes at her, the sparkles not missing a beat. As they moved, they looked more like snowfall than they did dancers. Dancing snowflakes, Morgana decided, smiling inwardly. "The knights are probably through with lunch by now," he said simply, avoiding her comment. If he was to shoot a comeback in return, he'd be standing with Morgana in the abandoned training area for hours. Not that he wouldn't bask in the pleasantness of that—because seriously, he would. But reality was too pestering of a poke not to answer.

"You don't deny it, though," Morgana said as Arthur began to turn to walk away. He shot her a sideways glance with a smile.

"Deny that I was whining?" She nodded at him. "Debatable." His smile morphed into a smirk, and he turned his back from her entirely, walking back to his knights, his posture straighter than Morgana had ever seen it. The sun reflected off of the sword, and she swore she could see another spark flying from the steel. It must be her imagination.

* * *

Aleyn stood in one of the hallways that overlooked the field Morgana now stood alone in. He leaned a shoulder against the window, arms crossed, smirking at the retreating form of Arthur Pendragon. The orange embers that had flown from the prince's sword seemed to fly into Aleyn's eyes like a magnet. Arthur was progressing quicker than the northern lord had expected. It made his job that much easier. His smirk deadened to a grim line when he heard footsteps coming up the hallway, and he pushed himself off of the window, breaking his gaze from the blonde royalty. _Viviane will be pleased._

* * *

Gwen came back into the clustered kitchen, carrying two plates with dark rye bread and raspberry jam spread on top. It wasn't much of a lunch, but the way Gawain and Bran were staring, one would think a whole feast was being presented to them. Merlin gave them a little smile, his heart warmed at being able to help the two brothers. Although so many differences separated the two, both Bran and Gawain had the same expression of joy.

"Here you are," Gwen said, placing a plate in front of each boy. Her fingers were nimble and delicate, careful not to make any unwanted sounds or breaks with the plates. She was so kind, and Merlin and Gawain eyed her with such worship.

"Thank you Gwen," the redhead told her, and Merlin wanted to die when he uttered her name. It was a sacred word—not one to be tossed around by those who had not earned the right to use it. His open hand clenched into a fist on the wooden table, and he ground his teeth for a moment before doing his habitual biting of the cheek.

"Not a problem," she replied to him, an innocent smile forming on her features. Bran met her gaze that was focused on Gawain, and he spun his right wrist in a circle to crack it. It always had a nasty habit of getting stiff. The sound caught Gwen's attention, and her caramel eyes moved on to Bran. Three different people were feuding for her attention, and Merlin's fist tightened. And that's when she sat next to him. Her thigh grazed the lower part of his hip as she took her seat, and his nails ran against his palm, the clench loosening. "So, where is it you're from?" Gwen put her elbows on the table.

"Cathor, my lady," Bran told her, his confidence to speak building slowly. Merlin watched as the boy twisted his wrist again.

"That's a long ways away, isn't it?" Gwen had always had a knack for making friends. One of the many things that made Merlin attracted to her the way he was. A look whispered across Bran's face. Not an emotion common to the human expression, but Merlin was able to read and feel it as obviously as a spell in his old book. It was like a secret language, that only he and Bran understood. Or so he wanted to think.

"It's about a fortnight's journey," Gawain supplied. His eyes travelled all over her body, and Merlin was sure he was undressing her in his mind. Degrading, lowbrow, uncouth…

Gwen was about to reply, when a fellow maid came scurrying over to the table. It was a plump woman who Merlin recognized to be Alice: one of the servants that tended to the needs of the Lady Morgana. "Her ladyship requires you in her chambers," her thick accented voice said, and Gwen quickly rose from her seat with a nod.

"Thank you, Alice," she said sweetly before the older lady shuffled away. She turned to the table of men behind her. "I'm sorry to have to leave, but I hope you enjoy your meal."

"We will, thank you. And I hope to see _you _again at some point," Gawain told her with a wooing smile, and Gwen blushed slightly.

"Bye Gwen," Merlin said with his most sweet of smiles, and Gwen returned it before quickly walking away. She always hated to leave Lady Morgana waiting.

Gawain watched her go, before turning his attention to Merlin. "She is really something," he said dreamily, and Merlin bit harder on his cheek.

"Yes," he replied tightly, "she is."

"Are you close friends with her, then?" Gawain had to use the word 'friend.' Merlin would almost rather prefer they talked about knighthood and Arthur. He was about ready to lunge full force across the table, targeting Gawain's throat. His pleasantness kept him in his seat, though.

"Yeah, we are," he said shortly. The redhead's freckled face made Merlin think thoughts no mild person should ever possess. He was beginning to slightly regret ever getting them past Camelot's guard. Tapping the fingers of his right hand on the table, he met Gawain's eyes darkly.

"You seem to be a very popular person in the castle, Merlin. Gwen, Prince Arthur… you have made yourself some very powerful friends." Merlin could hear a tinge of envy in the foreigner's tone, and he suppressed a smirk.

"I suppose you could say that," he replied, knowing very well a man like Gawain would be irked even farther by his humility. Merlin watched as the man across from him tightened the muscles in his jaw. Bran was too immersed in his rye bread to take much notice. But then the younger boy lifted his eyes from the food. First he glanced at Merlin, and then focused on his brother.

"Is it alright if I explore the castle?" The words were childish, but in an oddly grown up way. Gawain barely even took the courtesy to look to Merlin for approval before nodding his head. The sorcerer nodded also, knowing very well the Guard would not suspect anything of a boy roaming the castle grounds. Bran could easily pass as a servant boy.

A little smile broke out on Bran's face, and he swallowed the last bit of bread before getting up from his seat, and walking over to the door they had come through earlier. Grabbing onto the handle and pulling the heavy wood open, a gust of chilly wind raced into the room, and all of a sudden it was at least ten degrees cooler. Merlin shivered, and Gawain flinched against the wind. Soon the door was closed once more, and the heat regained control of the area.

* * *

So next chapter will be focusing a lot on Bran, and the Arthur/Merlin friendship (and possibly the Morgana/Gwen friendship), but I hope you enjoyed the ArMor and Merwen/Gawain love triangle! As always, ideas would be splendid if you have any.

_Reviews are love!_


	7. Sky Above Us Shoots to Kill

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Seven _

'_Sky Above Us Shoots to Kill'_

The streets that were supposed to be made up of dirt felt more like solid brown ice, not a single particle able to propel itself off the ground. Bran stared down at his feet, trying feebly to break the imaginary permafrost. Winter certainly hit Camelot hard—harder than Cathor; and his small, now virtually destroyed, town wasn't too far from the capitol. The wind felt different here; as if it possessed some sinister intention. It was ridiculous to think, but the whipping force that massacred the skies seemed to have a very distinct plan for Camelot: destroy it in ice. Bran's massive cloak wasn't doing much for the cold he had brewing inside his body, but it gave his skin the weak promise that it was warm. Everything seemed to be sunken under a layer of cold which held some unfathomable strength greater than gravity, making the legendary city of Camelot appear to be nothing more than a ruin waiting to happen. The people he passed in the congested streets knew their city was at the mercy of the coming winter, and it created a bleak aura even Bran couldn't shake. He walked faster.

Not knowing where he was heading to, made every step felt like a millennium. Without a destination, Camelot was a maze of confusion and numerous stares. They stared at him, like he was a raven serving as the bearer of bad news; the omen for a winter as evil as blackness. In the lessons he'd received in Cathor, Bran had been taught the capitol city was home to superstition and mythical beliefs, and as he walked deeper into the place, Bran believed that more and more. The time of winter cared not for the restrictions and restraints placed upon the people by King Uther; it defied the royal majesty to every degree it could. Uther was a man of fire, Bran's teachers had said; he rules with a boiling fist. Bran saw no heat encompassing the castle, no hint towards the flammable personality the king was rumored to have. Nonetheless, he averted his gaze from the massive stone of architecture, focusing now on the many kiosks that littered the sides of the streets. Vendors old and young, rich and poor, had hands raised, waving, or reaching out, hoping to snag a customer here and there.

Bran had always taken an interest in people like this. Whatever compelled them to go into this line of work was beyond him, but he supposed someone had to do it. But the desperation the vendors had was unbelievable—how did they not tire out before the day was done? He slowed down his pace to get a better view of the infamous salesmen that slithered around Camelot. They didn't appear half as intimidating as gossip in the outlying towns had made them sound. A kiosk set up on the right side of the road caught his attention.

Symbols of circles and triangles, spirals and swirls littered the tabletop in the form of necklaces, handmade pots, quilts, and patchwork. They mesmerized Bran, and he was unable to look away. He walked in a daze from the left side of the street to the right, not bothering to take into account the world around him. That's when he felt his foot step on something—someone? He froze, looking to his right slowly to see what he had made contact with. It wasn't a 'what', but rather a 'who'. And a very beautiful 'who' at that.

Auburn hair straight as a Grecian nose curled subtly at the tips, grazing the top of her torso. A marvelous blue dress was the wondrous backdrop for her majestic locks, and it hit against her skin with a certain clang—like metal. The look of cobalt against ivory was crisp; so untouchable, yet so alluring to reach out to. Her eyes were gray, but not like the bleak shade the castle to the side of Bran was. The girl's gray orbs had character; mystery. They allowed the dark haired boy to imagine any hue of the rainbow in them. For a second he thought he saw green; then blue overpowered; and next was a brilliant flick of lavender, so sweet and kind it almost distracted him from the scowl on her pink lips. He finally retracted his foot from hers.

"I'm sorry," Bran said quietly, no longer able to keep eye contact with her. In this girl's presence, he felt like no more than a faceless and hollow shell—she was just that luminous. She seemed to recoil at his words. Had he said something wrong?

"Didn't your mother ever tell you to look both ways before crossing?" A sharp reddish-brown eyebrow was raised, basically a poster child for her nobility. The priceless pearl bracelet around her right wrist was also a dead giveaway, but Bran would much rather focus on her features for her identity than her possessions.

"She did," Bran replied, shyness consuming him. The girl was tall, but he still had two or three inches on her. Yet she was one of the most nerve-racking people he had ever encountered. Some sort of force field seemed to radiate from her in powerful waves. What it was used for, he didn't know—protection maybe? Being that she was out here alone, it would make sense. But the invisible armor seemed to have some sort of deeper meaning.

"Then you certainly never listened to her, did you," she returned. Despite the dark monotone that plagued her voice, Bran could tell she loved to sing. Every syllable had a melodious undertone not even annoyance could hide. He held back a smile.

"I suppose I didn't," Bran said, his muscles tense. The girl certainly had no inhibitions. But what did he expect from someone surely to have a lord for a father? From before they could even walk or talk, they were taught they owned the world, and all the people in it. They had no need for shyness.

Someone walked up behind her. Blonde hair the color of snow, skin an unnerving shade lighter. His green eyes were a deep emerald, standing out against the pastiness with shocking obviousness. He was a hulk of a boy, towering over both Bran and the auburn beauty. The expression on her face displayed nothing but distain. Bran had seen the boy earlier on in his walk; he'd probably seen the whole thing. The raven haired boy sighed.

"Are you alright, Vanora?" the hulk asked, as if she had been in some intensive danger. There were no swords, no blood, no dragons, and no sorcerers. Only Bran and an accidental step on the foot. It honestly wasn't a big deal. Vanora let a smile crack onto her face, putting her in the role of the distressed maiden. It crumbled all of the strength Bran knew she possessed. She turned to the white haired boy, her magnificent locks flooding onto her back.

"I'm fine Cador," she said tightly. Cador seemed to take no notice of the distain in her tone. "It was a simple misunderstanding." Turning her head back to Bran, she gave him a glare, but there was silent forgiveness in her eyes that now appeared to be grassy green. He missed the vibrant lavender that had pranced in them earlier.

"You shouldn't have been walking through the Lower City alone," he said protectively, but it was only skin deep. He had the personality of a politician, Bran decided.

"I was never in any danger," she returned, walking more to the side of the road. Cador followed, and Bran hovered like a shadow behind them.

"You could have been, though." Cador's green eyes focused solely on Vanora. She shook her head at him in return, and Bran could sense the annoyance in her. He turned his wrist in a circle, and Cador's eyes flickered to him. Bran felt his chest constrict, but he didn't move or think of running. "What are you even doing here, still? _Go_. You've caused enough damage today."

Bran rolled his eyes. He was sure the fair lady would recover; he hadn't even stepped on her foot that hard. She didn't look back to him to try and defend him. Not that he would've expected her to, but that look that had been in her eyes gave the impression she didn't entirely despise him. Vanora was a fickle one for sure.

"Alright," Bran said, beginning to walk away. Damn the kiosk with the symbols for tempting him out of his secluded shadow.

"You will refer to your superiors as 'lord'," Cador bit out, and Bran stopped. Turning around emotionlessly he stared at him coldly. Cador was a haughty one to say the least.

"My lord," he said with a dry bow. Vanora looked to him then. A simple stare. A streak of lavender shot across her irises. Bran met her gaze only for a moment before turning from the nobles again and walking quickly.

* * *

Gawain finished the last bit of rye bread, each bite reminding him of Gwen's beautiful face. He looked to Merlin, determination coursing through his veins.

"Seeing as it's just the two of us now," he began, and Merlin knew where he was headed, "it seems like the perfect time to talk about knighthood." Merlin ground his teeth. Could the redhead have phrased that odder? He exhaled deeply to lull his murderous desires. Biting the right side of his cheek, he paused before replying.

"I suppose," Merlin said. "But I'm telling you, Gawain, there is no way the prince will allow you to join the Knights of Camelot." He knocked a fist against the table, becoming fidgety.

"Maybe not if I were to just go up to him, but Merlin, you have the power to sway his decision." He breathed. "I know I've done nothing to deserve it, but I would really be appreciative of your help. I must be able to protect Bran and all of Cathor before I can go back." Gawain's green eyes were pleading—genuine pleading. All of the narcissism had been flushed from his personality, and Merlin wanted no more than to help him. Of course it was a grudging desire to help, but Gawain had phrased it so wonderfully, Merlin couldn't help but be compelled.

"I want to help you; really, I do. But there's no clean way of doing it. The laws are the laws: only nobility can serve."

"No one can live solely on chivalry," Gawain returned, "so what are these unclean ways?" He didn't want to have to con his way into the Knights, but he was desperate. The flash of disappointment in Merlin's bright blue eyes was not lost to him, and he felt himself suddenly nauseous.

"They can," Merlin said, "it might just not win them a place in the Knights of Camelot." He eyed the red haired companion next to him. "But it's not impossible to forge a certificate of nobility," he said giving up on staying abstinent.

"A certificate?" Gawain had never heard of that. It seemed petty. Still, he trusted Merlin enough to go along with it.

"It's not a certificate, really; just proof that you're part of a certain noble House." Merlin shrugged.

"And you've seen one of these documents before?"

"They've got whole books of them in the castle library," Merlin said. It almost made Gawain seem innocent, him not knowing much about the rules of society. Where Merlin had focused on the people, Gawain had spent his time training how to use a sword against those said people.

"You can do it, then. Make a House proof?" He put his elbows on the table, looking intently at Merlin. The sorcerer swallowed hard. Guilt was building up in his throat.

"I can," he replied. "But it might take me some time. There aren't many houses the prince isn't familiar with."

"As long as you need," Gawain said with an approving smile. Merlin lifted his lips uneasily, mirroring his companion's features. It was a silent agreement; an obvious declaration that they were accomplices in duping the Crown Prince of Camelot.

* * *

Arthur had sent for him fifteen minutes ago now, and Merlin still hadn't arrived. Two swords were by him. The one laying on the ground waiting for Merlin to come and pick it up, and the one he was twirling around in his own hand. Each time the steel caught the glare of the sun Arthur thought of Morgana. Not her smile, not her skin, not her ebony hair. He thought of the look in her eyes when she'd seen the sparks fly from the sword. He'd never seen her green orbs quite that terrified—quite that judgmental. She had looked at him as if he was an intruder, impersonating as the prince she usually found herself talking to. It left him numb, yet he could still feel the tingle in his fingertips. The sensation had long since passed, but every image of Morgana brought it flooding back.

"Sorry," Merlin said, stumbling on a ditch in the ground, "sorry." He fumbled with the red scarf he had tucked into his jacket, and looked up awkwardly at Arthur. The prince wasn't amused; in the slightest. Jaw tense, eyes narrowed, face stone, he looked about ready to go into battle. And Merlin seemed to be the opponent. "I uh, I was in the kitchen when you sent for me," the servant continued, rubbing the back of his head with his right hand. Arthur's expression didn't change.

"Wonderful work Merlin," he drawled, "you remind me every day what a _great _decision it was for me to make you my servant." There was no humor in the Pendragon's voice. Nothing but ice which melted Merlin's bright eyes.

"It's a long walk from the kitchen to the training fields, sire," Merlin told him, supplying his master with a little smile. A layer of darkness was lifted from Arthur's eyes. He wondered what was wrong with his prince anyway. Nothing usually burdened him; or, he never let it show. But today, he seemed like an utterly different person. Not Merlin's carefree Arthur Pendragon.

"Have you ever considered walking faster?" Arthur questioned. Merlin wasn't sure if the prince was joking, or continuing his serious streak, but he nodded in respect anyway.

"I hadn't given it much thought," he said.

"At least decipher the fact that that was sarcasm; I'd much prefer I didn't know what you did and did not consider." Death had grabbed hold of his tone, turning him into no more than a corpse whose heart had decomposed centuries ago. Merlin tried to remind himself that Arthur was in a foul mood, and that his words meant nothing. But a black speck in his prince's eyes gave another truth entirely. A sinister smirk crept like a spider around the blue of Arthur's irises, stomping on the tiny little dancers that formulated the sparkles.

"Yes sire," Merlin whispered in return, dropping Arthur's dark stare. He wrung his hands together at his stomach, feeling the coldness chillier than the wind encompass him.

* * *

I promise next chapter I'll continue this Arthur/Merlin scene and add much more detail. It's just really late where I am, and I wanted to update before I fall asleep or start writing gibberish. So here it is everyone, chapter seven! It's not my best work at all, but I hope it'll suffice until the next update.

_Reviews are love! _


	8. Words Are Only Painted Fire

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Eight _

'_Words Are Only Painted Fire'_

Gaius' long gray cloak dragged across the stone floor, and he could only imagine how much dust had accumulated on the hem. It had been years since he'd walked this swiftly to the Throne Room with news beyond a simple oddity in an outlying town. Omens rarely plagued the kingdom, threatening the very walls that had protected Camelot for centuries—but ice held no warmth or mercy for tradition. It was in the colder months that things began to change: it was the time in which children shed their layers of innocence and blithe; life began to rumble in renewal beneath the chilled ground; when kingdoms fell. Hands clasped tightly together inside of the long sleeves of the cloak, Gaius finally made it to the massive doors of the Throne Room. At the sight of his presence, the two guards immediately pushed the doors open for him with bows of the head. He nodded his head in return, before rushing over the threshold.

There Uther sat, in his chair that symbolized an eternal power he could only dream of possessing. As kings rose and fell, the throne on which they all sat upon never changed—no matter how many different families declared themselves royalty. The thick crimson velvet served as the heart in the center of the seat, and the spine when it trickled into the backrest. It was outlined protectively by a strip of gold which then clashed harmoniously with a thick ribbon of deep brown wood. The edge of the armrests curved in such a way it mirrored how a king's chin rose as he gazed from his ship at the kingdom that was now under his command. Flecks of gold went with the curve like a wave; a tangible version of the power the man who sat upon the throne had. Intimidating to say the least, Gaius approached the king and his chair with such strength one would think he'd finally grown used to the both of them.

"Ah, Gaius," Uther smiled in jovialness, clapping his hands together, "what news have you brought?" The king had insisted on having a daily meeting concerning the happenings of and around the kingdom, from the moment he'd succeeded his father. Usually Gaius could say with pride that Camelot and the surrounding areas were safe and sound under Uther's protective rule, and the old man knew that that was what his king wanted to hear today. Especially with a man like Lord Aleyn present in court, whose opinion meant all the world to Uther. Gaius wished he could be the bearer of good news; but the king would have to face his beloved lord's judgments, if the bearded man had any.

"Sire," Gaius started, as sort of a disclaimer, "I regret to report that the kingdom is not at its usual tranquility." He was careful to add the fact that a situation like this was once in a blue moon for Camelot. Uther glanced cautiously at Aleyn who didn't seem displeased in the slightest, and then supplied a thankful gaze to his Physician.

"How far from normal is it then," Uther replied, and Gaius could feel the room increase at least five degrees in temperature.

"It seems the town of Lucan has experienced a sort of… freezing." He retracted his eyes from his king and lord, feeling himself in the presence of a dragon. Uther's fingers wrapped tightly around the armrests of his throne, and looked to neither Aleyn on his right nor Morgana on his left. His bleak eyes the color of the castle's stone focused solely on Gaius.

"A freezing," Uther replied dully. The word didn't roll off his tongue well. It stuck in his throat like the way bodies of water froze over in Nantres. No flame could burn away the cold, and Gaius flinched at the sudden wintry ghost encompassing Uther's breath he swore he could feel graze his neck. The physician finally made eye contact once more with his king. They gray of Uther's eyes was now the color of the clouds on an ominous December day.

"It would appear their fields have all frozen over. They do not believe they will be able to grow and ration enough food to keep their people throughout the winter." Gaius held up a note that had arrived only this morning from Lucan's Head Representative. Drawing nearer to the throne, he delicately handed the letter to Uther. The Lucian seal of a blue sparrow had been broken, and tidbits of the wax dotted the tan parchment. The king ran his left thumb along the crease in the paper, still not opening it.

"What is your opinion of this situation, Gaius?" Uther changed from using the pad of his thumb to trace the crease, to using his nail. He looked intently at his trusted physician, and the old man avoided his gaze at all cost. Fiddling with his fingers, he decided the truth was the best approach here. He stood a little straighter, lifting his head.

"We have barely even punctured the surface of the Winter Months, sire. I do not believe Lucan could have already been plagued with ice." Gaius was satisfied with his answer, and he waited for Uther to reply. Hopefully calm would overpower the heat.

"It is also not near enough to the northern border," Aleyn supplied. His black eyes somehow blended with the darkness of his hair, making him appear like an ebony shadow. Both Uther and Gaius looked to the Nantres lord with undying respect. Aleyn clicked his tongue. It was amazing how easily reverence could be earned when the situation was desperate enough. No one understood the cold like Aleyn did. Arthur rivaled him, perhaps, but the young prince had never spent a day farther north than Rion; and the small town was still mild enough to attract the birds.

"Ice in the last week of November," Uther thought aloud, his eyes glazing over in thought. "It's not natural." He looked to Gaius with conflicted eyes.

"No sire, it is not." The physician shifted his weight to his left foot. Years of doing the king's bidding certainly took a toll; body and soul. Yet Uther was still his king, and he would never want to deny him help. Even through all his tantrums and heated abuse. Uther looked to a guard standing on his left.

"Tell Prince Arthur to take a party to Lucan to investigate how much damage has been caused by the ice," Uther commanded the guard, "and make it clear this is a matter that must be tended to immediately."

The guard nodded furiously before scurrying from his post beside Morgana. She stared at her king, not understanding the urgent seriousness that hung on his features. Yes ice in November was certainly not normal, but did it really require the attention of Arthur and his knights? Situations like this were usually dealt with by lords such as Mador or Lionel, with the accompaniment of a handful of the Camelot Guard. She hadn't thought the rules had changed any time recently. Yet the look on Uther's face told her this was no joking matter or case of overdramatic ruling. Running her tongue across her teeth, her interest was peaked.

After the young guard had left the Throne Room, Uther's dark eyes scanned the remaining people around him. "Leave us," he said with a flick of his wrist, landing his gaze on Gaius, telling him silently to stay. The older man bowed in compliance, careful not to take a step until everyone had exited. Aleyn slipped through an exit situated by his chair on the right as swiftly as possible. It appeared the Nantres native loathed the times of council, while Uther bathed in their reassurance. Morgana though, did not share the lord's eagerness to leave. She rose from her chair slowly, smoothing out a wrinkle in her dress, before finally walking slowly out a door on her left. Finally Gaius raised his eyes to Uther. The king's face was tense.

"You were right to send the Knights, sire," Gaius said quietly, "but Arthur?" The two men had become loyal enough of friends to give the honest truth. No other lord or advisor could say that about their relationship with the king. Yet Uther still burned Gaius with a flaming glare.

"Of course Arthur," Uther bit back in return, moving up to the edge of his seat. His knuckles were white with how tightly he grasped the armrests, and if he clenched his jaw anymore, he'd most likely shatter his teeth.

"Ice, sire," Gaius said, "and the winter solstice; this is not like any other situation." He fiddled with his fingers again, careful to keep them hidden under his cloak. Uther was never at ease when he saw his physician unnerved.

"Lucan struck with ice has nothing to do with the Confrontation," Uther returned, pleading silently that they did not have to have this conversation.

"On the contrary, I believe. The solstice falls on the twenty-first of December, my king. The last time that happened was on the night of your son's birth." Gaius gave Uther a pointed look, too involved in the situation to meagerly obey. If Arthur went to Lucan, who knows what terrors he'd find; what history he'd uncover. How could Uther not see it?

"And so the solstice will continue to fall on that date throughout time. I cannot expect the worst every time it happens," Uther said, his knuckles no longer holding onto the throne so tightly. "Viviane is gone, along with her followers. There must be another explanation for Lucan."

"Sorcery has a distinct smell sire. A scent Lucan has."

"Then your nose must mistake you. Viviane was the only one capable of ice," Uther said. Despite his utter hatred for the practice, he was more informed about magic than even some of the most talented sorcerers. Gaius closed his eyes momentarily. The king was weaving himself in circles. He claimed the situation could not have been natural, but then denied the possibility that it could be Viviane rising again.

"Sire, it is the only explanation that makes sense. Sending Arthur to Lucan will bring you no serenity." Gaius sighed. "I only tell you this for the sake of you and your son. There are too many omens for it to be anyone, or anything, other than Viviane."

"Omens," Uther drawled, his knuckles whitening past the hue of fresh snow. Gaius swallowed, still standing his ground.

"The solstice is on the twenty-first; Arthur will be turning twenty-one. It is also the age her dear majesty the queen passed." Gaius thought reminding Uther of his wife's death on the day of his son's birth would bring too much pain for him to make any rational decision. So the physician held his tongue.

"I am not a superstitious man, Gaius," Uther said blandly, surprisingly staying strong enough to keep the heat deep inside him.

"There are times when every man must be," he replied quietly. "I beg you not to ignore the signs, Uther."

"The 'signs' hold no meaning. Arthur will go with his knights to investigate Lucan. God could not be cruel enough to plague this kingdom with another Confrontation of the Solstice." Uther knew deep down, that Viviane was not dead; nor were her followers. But he'd believed for so many years that they were gone, that it was hard to trust anything but that. The mind plays cruel tricks on those who let it.

"The decision is always yours in the end of course," Gaius said with a bow. His feet were itching to go; to flee the scene of his advice murdered and splattered across the majestic floor of the Throne Room.

* * *

Really short chapter, I'm sorry. Just wanting to add some plot line before delving into the ArMor next chapter, haha. So, by lovely reviewers, where have you vanished to? It's lonely in my PBOMT world without you! It's difficult to write chapters without input. I know every author says that and begs for reviews, but it's true. I'm going on vacation starting tomorrow, so I don't know how quick my next update will be. But if you're all the spectacular people I know you are, and leave reviews, I may be compelled to update sooner. (Wink, wink, haha).

_Reviews are love!_


	9. Blackmail the Eyelids

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Nine_

'_Blackmail the Eyelids' _

"_Will the earth end in fire or ice, Morgana," the teacher Adrean drawled, walking around the small room in which the Lady Morgana and Prince Arthur sat. His black robes slid across the side of the table they were at, and the raven haired girl shivered. Adrean had been her teacher for years, yet each day she grew with fear instead of love for the man. His eyes were the color of deadened lavender, his skin of crushed ivory. Tarnished with whatever whippings life had inflicted upon him, Adrean once might have been beautiful. _

_Morgana turned to him now, encased in his dark shadow of a robe, and swallowed. She'd never thought about the end of the world—especially not what would trigger its demise. But the question was placed before her now, and Adrean narrowed his ghostly purple eyes at her, while Arthur turned his kind blue in the direction of her cheek. Knowing he was there, her golden angel, made it all the easier to form a response. "Fire," she finally answered, a warm sort of strength filling her stomach like warmed milk on a February night, amidst the snow. Morgana began to tap her left hand uneasily on the table and she could no longer remember if it was made of stone or wood. Neither option was kind to her skin; they either left scrapes or splinters. _

"_Why do you say that?" Adrean raised an eyebrow of the blackest of ebonies. His gaze then flickered down to Morgana's hand which was still tapping away, and he silenced it by placing the book in his grasp on it. She froze, and she felt the heat rise in Arthur next to her. "No left hand," he reminded her sharply. Adrean jerked the book away swiftly and Morgana's fingers tensed. _

"_Yes Sir," Morgana said in submission, retracting her left hand from the table and beginning to feebly tap her right one. Arthur watched as her fingers struggled to perform the motion and he bit his lip to keep from yelling at Adrean. It was tradition that every lord, lady, prince, and king of Camelot be able to write comfortably with their right hand, and it was a matter King Uther took extremely serious. Arthur's eyes blackened as he thought of all the bills and treaties his father signed with his dominant left. He gripped the feathered pen in his hand tighter. _

"_Now, why do you believe fire, Morgana?" Adrean sounded almost… pleasant. The red book still in his hand didn't seem as ominously threatening, and a look of what could be described as peace teased his features. Morgana licked her dry lips. _

"_Fire destroys," she said simply, "ice preserves. If preservation was to destroy the earth, then we would have disappeared centuries ago." Morgana sunk lower in her seat and felt her arm graze Arthur's. Every time she did this, she knew she'd make contact with the prince—it had become her conscious habit. There seemed to be some sort of chilled boulder between her and the golden Arthur, so this was one of the only 'innocent' ways to make contact with him. Uther had scolded her time and again for her closeness to his son and Morgana hated how Arthur was beginning to accept the imposed distance. She was only the king's ward, she knew, but by god would she and Arthur be the perfect match. Uther refused to see it, and she didn't know quite why. Was there some princess in a far off kingdom Arthur was already betrothed to? She prayed that wasn't the case. _

"_Ice serving as preservation," Adrean pondered aloud, "it is certainly an interesting theory. But it takes conservation to the extreme of death; you do not see that as a threat, Morgana?" The teacher walked behind the two children, until he reached the chair situated in front of them. Lifting his robes a tad to take a seat, the prince eyed his teacher coldly. Adrean always seemed to pick on Morgana. At first Arthur had thought nothing of it. But one time turned into two, which eventually built to a number he couldn't even remember. Morgana's skin seemed to pale more and more with each question Adrean shot at her. _

"_Fire kills too, Sir Adrean," she pointed out. "I'd much rather this world end intact, than in ashen ruins." Morgana gazed at Arthur, his red jacket somehow unfitting against his snowy skin. They collided in a sort of apocalypse that Morgana would never wish upon the world. _

"_Curious," Adrean returned, about to delve into another one of his questions Morgana could never answer right—he wouldn't allow it. Arthur jumped in before he could. _

"_Sir, why is it you're asking about such a catastrophe like Armageddon?" He made a point to tap his left index finger on the table. Adrean glared at it, but made no attempt to stop it. It wasn't in his authority to do so. _

"_Do you two know what today is?" Adrean rose from his seat beginning to pace in front of them again. _

"_August fifteenth," Morgana replied like clockwork; her words hollow. She had no idea the point Adrean was trying to make, but at least Arthur had saved her from the interrogation. Her champion… _

_Arthur sighed, as if remembering the presence of a large rock on his back. "The anniversary of the Great Fire," he said quietly. His face was lighted with the kerosene of graveness, and the flames that danced in the highlights of his hair were put out. Arthur became encased in the ice stemming from his skin. _

"_That's correct," Adrean replied with a pleased smile. "And what was it Arthur, that happened all those years ago on this day?" He finally sat the red book down on the table. Morgana glanced at the title written in golden letters: _The Book of Temperamental Weather and Temperatures_. _

"_A great portion of the Lower City burned throughout night," Arthur said. Morgana lifted her green eyes from the book, and directed her gaze at her prince. His strong profile seemed softened; weakened. She narrowed her eyes slightly, noticing how the fire to their left didn't flicker in his eyes. It was an oddly cold day for August. _

"_Yes, it burned. That was the last time the dragons ever flew freely." The Great Fire had happened four months before Arthur's birth. Those who still believed in superstition thought it was an omen, warning Camelot of the coming Confrontation of the Solstice. Somehow, the young prince thought it all to be his fault. He was so connected to it all, it was difficult to believe anything on the contrary. _

"_Will the dragons ever come back?" Morgana asked quietly, still feeling her arm against Arthur's. _

"_That is a question, Morgana, which should not be asked and will not be answered. No one can predict the future; it is dangerous to even attempt to." Adrean picked up his red book, and walked from the room with a whip of his robes. Morgana and Arthur were left alone. _

"_It seemed a logical question to ask," Morgana said to Arthur with a confused shrug of the shoulders. He rolled his eyes in return. _

"_Logical," he drawled, "oh, well, as long as it was logical." _

"_Someone seems to hate that word today," Morgana returned, scrunching her face in taunt. She saw the glitter return to Arthur's blue eyes. _

"_My quarrel isn't with the word, Morgana," he said with a slight laugh. "You just go out on too much of a ledge when talking with Adrean." Arthur got up from his chair and Morgana suddenly felt cold at the loss of contact._

"_What do you expect me to do? He tests me, Arthur. If I don't accept the challenge, then I'd be doing myself a disservice." Morgana shook her head. It was in her nature to question; to push people to their limits. Arthur was like that too. She could see it in him. He just wouldn't give into it. _

"_It's not my intention for you to choose to be weak. You wouldn't be you if you did that. All I'm saying is there's a time for strength, and a time for—" _

"_Submission?" _

"_You're so eager to question, Morgana," Arthur said with a playful smile. "I was going to say 'being aware'." _

"_Why do you say that?" She raised an eyebrow, standing up. Arthur took a step closer to her. _

"_You think if I had the choice I'd endure Adrean without a fight?" He shook his head. "I would have chased him out of the room with my sword by now. But I don't, because it's not my place to. Being aware of what and who is around you is just as important as strength and freewill." Again, he took a step closer. Her breath quickened and her heart rate became much more noticeable in her chest. She prayed he couldn't see how her breasts heaved up and down in her dress the color of his eyes. _

"_You sound like your father when you talk like that," Morgana replied, nervous to say the least. Arthur had a way of freezing her body and mind, while awakening her insides with such a fire she literally felt her veins aflame. _

"_He's not entirely useless when it comes to advice," he said with a shrug. There was barely any distance left between their bodies now. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She loved how strongly and fiercely his right hand encompassed her fragile bone. "Oh come on, Morgana, don't be so uptight. Enough of this intellectual stuff you seem so fond of." _

"_And what do you propose we do, if not 'intellectual stuff'?" Morgana gave him a brilliant smirk, and his thumbs began to trace the tips of her collarbone subconsciously. _

"_The maids are about, serving lunch. Want to see how much we can steal without them noticing?" His eyes sparkled with mischievous flame. _

"_Somehow I don't feel I have a choice in the matter," Morgana replied, sinking in to his touch a little more. His arms held her upright strongly. She bit her cheek in shyness. As bold as she was in every other aspect of her life, Arthur Pendragon was the one exception. Maybe that was what enthralled her so much about the young prince. Or maybe it was his eyes; his hair; his lips; his voice. It all enticed her with such elegance, she felt herself begin to melt in his touch. _

"_Of course you don't," Arthur said in simple blitheness, "I just thought I'd give you the illusion you did." With one last shining smirk, he retracted his hands from her body and began to dash towards the door. Morgana swayed for a moment at the loss of support before tagging along after Arthur, feeling sorry for the maids they were about to tease. _

* * *

She placed her hands on the _Book of Temperamental Weather and Temperatures_, flipping to the index page. Searching down the list until she found the word 'ice', she smiled in victory when she saw it. Running her finger over the pages she reached the chapter labeled 'Ice'. Morgana's eyes scanned the words furiously, searching for anything that might look like what was happening in Lucan. She found only one occurrence in the whole chapter: the Confrontation of the Solstice.

* * *

So here I am in the beautiful city of Annapolis, Maryland; surrounded by wondrous sites, people, music, and events. If there really is a heaven, I hope it looks like this. Anyways, that's my excuse for this chapter being super sucky. I wanted it to be ten times longer, but alas, I ended at just about 2K words. Sorry guys. I hope you enjoyed the bit of ArMor, though! I'm crossing my fingers next update will be more of a legitimate chapter.

_Reviews are love! _

_(Like honestly; see that pretty blue button right there? Yeah, it really wants you to press it. It has virtual homemade cookies all prepared for you guys! Arthur and Merlin whipped them up special for reviewers ;) haha!)_


	10. Cathedral of Hephaestus

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Ten _

'_Cathedral of Hephaestus'_

Her chambers were cold. Freezing to the point where even her fur blankets seemed to be stagnant with a kind of ice. A fire was crackling behind her, radiating a strong heat; but it never reached her. It began to disperse and die right before it caressed her skin. The only warmth Morgana could feel were Gwen's hands as they brushed her hair and touched her skin now and then. They were soft, as if they'd been bathed in a luxurious pool of thick milk. Morgana let a little smile form on her lips and glanced up at her handmaiden through the mirror. The image was foggy, with a little too much of a glare pouring in from the window, but Gwen's radiance was sparkling with prominence. Morgana had always felt a little insecure around her maid: the girl was perfect. In looks, demeanor—she was everything someone could want; everything Arthur could want. Morgana worried that if her golden angel was to pass by Gwen, would he be able to resist? When the ward and the prince were younger, she was positive it was her and only her Arthur would ever love. But reality and aging had a cruel way of changing the things that she thought would last forever. Arthur Pendragon wasn't her one and only anymore. Morgana felt herself in a constant battle with the rest of Camelot for him. Uther, Merlin, Mador, Gaius, maidens, lords, peasants… they all wanted him for something. And she, the poor king's ward, was knocked into last place; so far down, that even if Arthur was to gaze out over the crowd he still wouldn't see her. She didn't want to become a ghost to him. Not while Gwen shimmered pleasantly in the mirror like that. Her reflection was a rusted dagger plunged right into the heart of Morgana's confidence. She put her hand on Gwen's to stop the maid from brushing, and turned to face her.

"What do you think of the prince," she asked dryly, eyes dead set on Gwen. The handmaiden's small smile began to fracture.

"Me, I, uh," Gwen gripped the brush tighter, "I don't think it's my place to say, my lady. I've hardly spoken to his highness." Morgana felt the tenseness in Gwen's hand, and a gray smile slithered onto her face. It wasn't black, completely full of hate, but the longer she looked to the maid the darker it seemed to get. She didn't want to be mad at Gwen; be jealous of her. But if the handmaiden became any more goddamn perfect, Morgana was sure she'd snap.

"Well, from those few times that you have, what's your opinion?" Morgana removed her hand from Gwen and the brush, the bristles then leaving her hair. She tapped her right index finger on the back of the chair.

"I don't have an opinion, my lady," Gwen returned quietly. She averted her gaze from the gorgeous Morgana, no longer able to keep eye contact with her brilliant green orbs. Fiddling with the wooden brush, her body became tense. When her ladyship acted this way it was hard to tell what was going through that head of hers. A part of Gwen shivered at the thought of knowing.

"Oh come Gwen, there are no sadistic ears around you. There will be no punishment for your opinion of Arthur; and I know you must have one. You're too observant of a person not to." She made the grayness disappear from her lips, and modeled nothing but blithe and openness. It was hard to stay angered at Gwen; she was too much of a sugary delight. The sweetness almost seemed to burn away Morgana's tongue.

Gwen sighed, dropping the brush down to her side and placing her caramel gaze in the direction of Morgana's sea foam one. "Well," she said awkwardly, just to make sure her ladyship knew this was not a subject she wanted to speak of, "he certainly seems to know his place in the world, and won't let anybody forget it." The cast of a shadow that supported her shattered smile grew a bit. The Lady Morgana asked about Arthur now and again. Despite how dry she tried to make herself seem, Gwen knew Morgana bubbled with brightness at the thought of him. The maid couldn't help but smile at it.

"You mean to say he's a spoiled prat," Morgana paraphrased with a smirk. The delight that began to form in her chest was unfathomable. Gwen, dear, dear Gwen, who loved every living thing on the earth, did not feel that way towards the prince. Morgana's prince. Maybe she was right as a child, to think that Arthur was hers; and hers alone.

"Those words are yours, my lady, not mine. But since you have said them, I cannot help but agree." Gwen's smile was healed then, growing into a vast grin. It was contagious, Morgana no longer able to keep a straight face. She giggled a bit for Gwen's innocence, and a bit out of relief.

"It's not a secret, Gwen," Morgana said happily, "not even to Arthur. He knows he's a prat; oddly enough, he seems proud of it." She rolled her eyes. "The only person in all of Camelot who does not seem to think that is the king." She began to tap the rest of her fingers on the back of the chair, careful not to let her left hand join in the fun. If there was one lesson of Adrean's that clung to Morgana's conscious memory, it was '_right hand only, Morgana_'.

"Fathers are always proud of their children," Gwen said in reply, thinking of her own father. He was proud of her; he had to be. She prayed he was. As she looked at Morgana, acceptance swam in her eyes.

"Yes, I suppose they are," she returned distantly, "or, I dream them to be." Her grin mellowed into a sad and toothless smile. Uther was not a father figure to Morgana; never was, and never would be. Gaius was the only man she knew to possess the fatherly qualities she craved, but even he did not amount to what her true father would have been. It was because of her father's death that she hated the Confrontation of the Solstice. He had died protecting a king she didn't think deserved the crown in the first place. His memory was tarnished by Uther and what he had become. It seemed so unfair.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I did not mean to open any old wounds," Gwen said shyly and full of emotion. Morgana reached out and grasped the girl's forearm.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Gwen, nothing." Morgana's smile was kinder than any other Gwen had ever seen pass her lips. She placed her opposite hand on top of Morgana's which still held her left forearm tenderly. After a moment or so more of this position, the raven haired girl rose from her seat and walked over to the window on her right; Gwen followed.

Two figures speckled the open green field below: one with shining gold hair, Morgana thought blissfully, one with ebony, Gwen smiled to herself.

"Gwen," Morgana said, eyes still locked on Arthur, "do you think the world will end in ice or fire?" She'd only been asked that question twice in her life: once by Adrean in the dark Room of Knowledge; once by Arthur as they sat in the lusciously fruitful forest under a tree. If her memory still served her well, she envisioned it to be a magnolia tree. Morgana could recall the deep pink at the heart of the blooming flowers, and how the hue faded into a virtual white as it reached to the tip. They were beautiful little things, so simplistic and kind. But that had been in the springtime. It was almost December now. The buds were gone.

"I've never thought about it," Gwen replied. "I haven't seen a need to." She looked to Morgana curiously, breaking her gaze away from Merlin. The sea foam green eyes of her ladyship still stared out the window.

"It's not a happy thing to think about, I know," Morgana said, "but if you had to decide." Finally her eyes met Gwen's.

"It's hard to think it will end in anything but ice, seeing as how swiftly and coldly winter is approaching." Gwen bit the inside of her cheek. "What do you believe, my lady?"

Morgana gave a weighty laugh. "I knew once," she said. "I was _positive _I knew. But now, I haven't the slightest idea. Fire and ice meld together in my mind; they've become one in the same."

Gwen nodded. "It must have been a burden though, to think you knew how the world will end; if only for a moment." Her face was an emotion Morgana had never seen before on her. There wasn't even an adverb that could begin to explain how her handmaiden's features looked. It was a spectacle: like an eclipse that one sees maybe twice in their life. But it wasn't even that. The look was Gwen; purely her, but with heavy influence from someone Morgana couldn't name. Someone who knew—truly knew what it meant to be understanding.

"Yes, that would be a heavy burden to carry." Morgana's gaze fell back on Arthur. His sword was an extension of his body: the steel and power he could never conjure from his own bone. Arthur twirled it, danced with it as he moved his footing quickly, and slashed with it like the gallant knight he was. But all Morgana could think of was how sparks had flown from it. The sword shimmered in her direction.

* * *

"No, no, you're doing it _all _wrong," Arthur bit out, barely even breaking a sweat; still, after an hour. Merlin was fumbling with his sword as if it was a hot rock he could not hold firmly for more than a second. The prince ground his teeth, and stalked over to Merlin, with a fiery annoyance seething from his pores. Merlin stopped with his pathetic attempts at holding the sword correctly, and set his eyes on Arthur, mouth open ready to speak. His chance was over before it began. "For starters, _Mer-lin_," Arthur said, using his servant's name as more of a jest, "you hold the sword with your _dominant_ hand; not the one that can barely respond with a reflex." His blue eyes looked down at the piece of steel dangling feebly in Merlin's left hand.

"I thought you held the shield with your dominant," Merlin replied, lifting his right arm up in a sort of 'L' position. Arthur was not impressed to say the least. The servant gave a little smile, too amused with Arthur's anger to be socially savvy.

"In an alternate universe where beating your opponent is not the optimum goal, then possibly it is. But here in Camelot, we prefer to actually stand a chance against our enemies." He eyed Merlin up and down. "No matter how small of a chance that may be…" he stuck his sword shallowly in the ground. It was still warm enough for the steel to penetrate the soil. It wouldn't be for long.

Merlin bit his cheek. "Then why is it you're practicing with me, sire?" He tacked the last word on extra sweetly, knowing Arthur would be peeved. Annoyance flickered in the prince's eyes which appeared ice blue today, and Merlin basked in the small glory.

"Must you always ask questions Merlin," Arthur drawled with a sigh, using the handle of his sword to pivot a couple humble degrees. "You know, this is why we never get anything done," he decided. "You talk, and talk, and talk, and talk, and before we know it, you've wasted the entire day with your _talking_."

"Well, in those hours I'm supposedly always talking, I'd love to introduce you to some synonyms for the word 'talk'." Merlin gave a mischievous smile, watching as Arthur gripped his sword tighter with his right hand. The fire brewed in his eyes, quickly morphing him into a dangerous predator. Arthur's jaw was shut extra tightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck rapidly. Finally, he broke.

"Merlin!" He yelled strongly, utterly enraged. Whipping his sword forcefully from the ground, he pointed it right at Merlin's chest, grazing his brown jacket with the unnervingly sharp edge. "No more," he fumed darkly. "No more jokes, no more wit. Pick up your sword, and do it correctly. I'm sure somewhere deep down you know how." There was no encouragement in his voice, no mercy either. Just fire and a black abyss. Merlin did as he was told, and tried to mimic the stance he'd seen Arthur go into many a time. His legs wavered a tad, not sure exactly what they were supposed to do. "Attack," Arthur commanded.

Merlin lunged forward, waving his sword in tamed wildness in hopes of nicking some part of Arthur's body. The prince was too fast though, moving back before Merlin had even finished his full swing. "Predictable, Merlin," the prince told him dryly. He edged forward again, Arthur swatting away his sword with his own before the servant could make contact.

"Maybe if you were to teach me," Merlin said in broken fragments as he barely fought off Arthur's attacks. "I'm—I'm not even dressed properly." The blond rolled his eyes, dropping his sword down an inch or two.

"Any other complaints, Merlina? Are your skirts getting dirty too?" Arthur smirked, and Merlin weakly tried to hit his steel against the bit of armor his prince had on, but was met instead with the golden haired boy's sword. The servant sighed again, about ready to give in. Arthur was a bully; pure and simple. He wished it didn't bother him, but the prince's words had some sort of venom lingering sadistically on the tips; the sharp tips that seemed to pierce his skin. Merlin began to weaken his grip on the handle of his sword. That was when he noticed the knight jogging up to them. Merlin breathed in relief.

"Your highness," the man greeted with a bow, "your father requests an audience with you." The way the knight looked so adorningly towards Arthur almost made Merlin gasp. Everyone in Camelot worshipped him with such loyalty; a foreigner would have thought he was king instead of Uther. _If only_. But Arthur had a long way to go before he could be the king everyone expected him to be.

Arthur pushed Merlin's sword out of the way to lower his own, and turned towards the knight. "At this very moment," he asked, on the verge of being whiny. The third man merely nodded with another bow, beginning to turn away, expecting Arthur to follow. Scowling, sighing, and then finally shoving his sword handle first at Merlin, he followed the knight back into the castle. Merlin stood there numbly with two swords, no prince, and no victory.

* * *

Morgana had seen Arthur walk inside with the knight, knowing very well why his father had summoned him. She lingered in the hallway now, waiting for her golden angel to walk by. He wouldn't be in the best of moods, she was well aware, but she was too determined to care.

A minute or so later, Morgana now leaning against the wall, she saw Arthur approach being led by the knight. He wasn't happy in the slightest. A scowl was plastered on his face, showing all the signs of his honor and free will being stripped. Uther had a knack for being the catalyst for that face. Arthur made eye contact with her, and that's when she moved towards him.

"Where are you off to with an escort?" She asked, having to poke fun at how he was trailing behind a knight of lower status. Arthur glared at her, but made no attempt to speed up his pace or tear his eyes from her.

"My father beckons," he replied monotonously.

"What for?" Morgana asked, even though she knew the answer. She liked to let Arthur believe he was superior, when she wanted something from him.

"Haven't a clue," Arthur replied, directing his gaze to the knight, "he didn't say."

The man in the lead seemed to hear the prince's words, because he turned around. "His majesty the king has some urgent business for you to attend to in the town of Lucan," he said. No more, no less. Arthur figured that was all the man knew, so he didn't probe any farther.

"Lucan's the town covered in ice," Morgana said. Arthur looked at her strangely. "Or so they say," she added quickly. That seemed to lull any curiosity the prince might have had about why she knew that.

"Strange," Arthur said in that haughty twang of his, "it's too early for ice." He looked to Morgana, who nodded in agreement. The green dress she wore matched her eyes with such splendor, Arthur felt himself swimming in a sea of genuine beauty. They walked a minute or so in silence. One could never grasp fully how massive the castle was, until they had to walk from one end to the other.

"Take me with you," Morgana finally said, almost pleading. Arthur looked at her in shock, his eyes displaying every emotion possible.

"Take—take you with me," he replied, holding back a laugh. Morgana still caught the fact that he found the idea of taking a girl with him silly. But what was she to expect? Uther Pendragon had raised his son in a world where men ruled, and women were simply walking pieces of art to be swooned at. Of course bringing a girl along on a trip as far away, and as dire, as Lucan would be taken as a joke. She sighed hotly.

"Yes," Morgana said defiantly, straightening her posture and raising her chin. Dear god, did she have a perfect bone structure. Arthur still couldn't fully believe she was created on this earth. The finely drawn curve of her jaw bone, a facial structure covered gracefully in a tapestry of white, and eyes a color of green an artist could never make despite years of attempts—that was the work of gods, not men.

"Why are you so insistent on going?" Arthur asked, raising a blond eyebrow.

"I've never seen Lucan," Morgana said. To be honest, she didn't quite know why she wanted to go. She just knew that she had to be there.

"And you think this would be the ideal time to holiday there," he replied sarcastically. Arthur wanted her there. She kept him in balance, and in his place. He craved the presence of his green eyed raven on his long trip, but something kept him from agreeing.

* * *

Woah, a chapter more than two thousand words? Armageddon must be coming. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the Morgana/Gwen, Arthur/Merlin, and Arthur/Morgana in this chapter. I'm always iffy about writing Merthur, so I hope I did okay. I'm crossing my fingers that next chapter can be more flashbacks and the trip to Lucan. Also, I think I screwed myself over by putting in so many subplots. I promise I will develop all of them; it'll just take me some time. Well, I hope everyone's day is going well, and _please tell me your thoughts! _

_Reviews are love! _


	11. Please Read!

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Author's Note_

I know, I hate adding chapters that are just author's notes; but, I felt I needed to. Starting tomorrow and through the twelfth, I will be vacationing in England, and cannot bring my laptop. That being said, I will not be able to update… and I know how terrible that makes me, seeing how long it's been since my last update. But please, stick with this story, and when I return, I will be a ninja writer, updating off the hook! Haha. Well, I hope you all are having a great summer… or winter, depending on where you are, and I'll see you in twelve days!

Thanks so much,

Jenny


	12. Darling, Everything's On Fire

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Twelve _

'_Darling, Everything's On Fire'_

They stood there in the hallway, simply staring. Morgana reflected a sort of disappointment, while Arthur tried feebly to understand her thoughts. Needless to say, neither party truly conveyed the meaning they wanted. She knew he wanted her to come to Lucan with him; it was obvious in the way he looked at her. At least, that's what she allowed herself to believe, and she hoped the truth would follow suit. Arthur's blue eyes were a mysterious pit of every alluring emotion that kept her from seeing straight though. It was one of his many strengths that left her disabled. A painful reminder that no matter how powerful she made herself, Arthur could always remember her as the delicate little girl—and return her to that state. It was a hauntingly lulling idea, and that's what scared her. Not his ability to do it, not her unstable defenses against it: the fact she _willingly _would give in. Morgana narrowed her gaze, and watched as Arthur shifted his weight awkwardly. Arthur Pendragon was rarely awkward. A little smile formed on her face, at how cute he was in this moment. She shooed it quickly. He breathed deeply.

"Morgana, I'm sorry for reacting the way I did. I just—you, coming to Lucan… I just don't understand why." He gave her a sultry stare, his icy eyes starting to brew a fire in the form of sparkles. She always loved his eyes when the hot and cold were at equilibrium. The harmony was calming. Morgana dropped her gaze before she got lost in his sea of blue forever.

"To be honest with you," she replied quietly, "I don't quite understand it myself. But I rarely ever get to leave the walls of Camelot, and the situation in Lucan I feel, needs more than just military stability. Those people have fears no piece of steel can lull. Winter is almost upon them, and they have no way to sustain. The Lucian people need comfort."

"And you feel you can give that." Arthur smiled at her. His way of telling her he agreed fully.

"If I'm given the chance, I think I can," she returned confidently, echoing her blonde angel's smile. It felt victorious when they were on the same side. There was no point in succeeding unless there was someone she cared about beside her. If only she could wear the companion to the crown Arthur would wear one day. They'd be unstoppable together. Fairytales had a way of dying in December, though.

"I believe you can too, Morgana. And if it was up to me, there'd be no debate about your accompanying me. However, my father is still king, and therefore, it's ultimately his decision." He shook his head, knowing very well the word 'no' would pass his father's lips much more easily than 'yes'.

"You're right. But with a little convincing, I'm sure he can see the benefits of me going." Morgana's smirk was a playful one, but only for Arthur. To anyone else, it was endgame; a warning that the king's ward was not someone to mess with.

"Spoken like a true queen," Arthur said quietly before he could stop himself. The thought was meant to be his and his alone. He froze when he realized Morgana had heard his words as well. He dropped his stare.

"Well," Morgana said tightly, attempting not to think too deeply into his words, "the only person strong enough to sway a king is a queen. So if I can fill the shoes long enough to change Uther's mind…" she stopped herself before she diverted off into some rant about her future as Camelot's queen, with Arthur reigning beside her. Futures and Arthur were a deadly combination… as long as Uther had a ruling voice in the matter.

"We can both sway him," he told her supportively. Usually a comment like that would send Morgana into the depths of feminism and in turn shunning Arthur for the next day or two. But this wasn't him trying to step in and save the damsel in distress. It was Arthur Pendragon coupling himself with the Lady Morgana, eyes set on the intent of fighting for her… _with _her. She rubbed her hands together, smiling brightly up at him. Morgana wanted nothing more than for Arthur to place his hand on top of hers, but for now, this was enough. His proximity to her was enough. His intent was more than enough. Valiant, bold, chivalrous, kind Arthur was looking at nobody but her. Despite the obstacles, despite it all, he was with her.

"Your highness," the knight that had been escorting them said, "may I lead you to your father now?" Arthur bit his lip. He didn't need guidance to his father, but he held his tongue and nodded politely. The knight stayed a good ten paces ahead of the prince and the ward.

"No matter what my father decides, I want you to come." Arthur gave her a sideways glance. It was a look she'd never really seen before. The genuine sparkle melded with the bad boy aura he put on for the fair maidens he came in contact with. Morgana kept her internal giggling to a minimum.

"What are you insinuating?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"He may say no." He paused. "Very likely he'll say no. But my father has no control over who happens upon our unknowing party in the nighttime hours." It was exhilarating to hear those words pass Arthur's lips. She gave a laugh.

"I do hope we can convince him now though. Because as much as the mystique of that scenario appeals, I'd much rather leave for Lucan while the sun shines. I want your father to trust me; have more expectation for me than just to appear at dinners in nice dresses. If he can agree to Lucan, maybe there's hope." Her eyes and voice became dreamy. Arthur smiled at her.

"I trust you and believe you were meant for so much more," he told her. "And if you are coming, you better believe you have high expectations to meet. You know how I _loathe _being wrong." They both laughed as they reached the doors.

* * *

Even the cool air coming in from the open doors of the Throne Room could not help Morgana's perspiring pores. In the presence of King Uther, nothing less than boiling was sufficient. Fires always had to roar, even in the dead of summer, and gloves and cloak were always a must. She felt sorry for the men that had to stand guard for him; they all seemed to be sweltering. The only other person in the room not affected by Uther's ridiculous heat was Arthur. He seemed perfectly content. It almost made Morgana forget what time of year it was.

"I will go to Lucan," Arthur replied in response to his father's proposal of assessing the issue of Lucan in person. "Under one condition." The content smile that had been on Uther's lips was gone, and he gave a dark glare in Arthur's direction before looking at Aleyn. The Nantres man only shrugged subtly. Arthur Pendragon _never _gave conditions to his father.

"And what would that be," the king said dryly. He didn't lean forward, nor did he barely even look at his son. Arthur sighed icily.

"For Morgana to join me." Short, direct, concise—like a command a king would give. The prince was defiant. Morgana leaned subtly closer to him. Nobody seemed to notice. Not even Arthur.

"Mor—" the king laughed before he had barely begun his sentence. "Arthur, this is not a time for jokes." He was dismissive. "Now ready the men and tell that servant of yours to prepare your horse. Enough of this foolishness."

"There's no joke I wish to entertain you with, father. The situation in Lucan is more than steadying the turmoil that is sure to come. These people need comfort; winter is coming, and they have no way of surviving. I believe Morgana could be that calming force. Not every issue can be solved with swords." He stepped closer to her. Morgana couldn't decide if it was a spur of the moment thing to stress his seriousness to Uther, or if he truly did want to be closer to her. Either way, it felt nice.

"It's poetic Arthur, truly. But Morgana will not be going with you." Uther held his ground. Steamy electricity always crackled when the stubborn Pendragons went head to head.

"I won't go without her," Arthur shot back coldly. Morgana felt the goose bumps rise on her skin.

"Uther, maybe allowing her ladyship to go with him is a wise decision. As he said, the Lucian people could use the comfort," Aleyn advised easily. The steam brewing in Uther seemed to subside a tad, and he looked to his son.

"If you wish it Arthur," Uther replied stiffly, "take her with you." Arthur gave a satisfied smile and began to turn away, Morgana following right behind. "But know this: as your king and you as my knight, you have gone against every code you vowed to obey. Disloyalty is not viewed upon kindly in Camelot, Arthur." The prince froze for a moment, his stare dark and stony, before he continued heatedly out of the room.

* * *

"Arthur," Morgana said weakly, "you didn't have to do that. I know what loyalty means to you, and if you feel you've broken it, I—"

"I have a loyalty to _you _Morgana, and I didn't break that. My father just can't stand being wrong." Arthur was closed off from her; locking her out. His confession of his loyalty to her couldn't even be appreciated. Morgana felt horrendously guilty.

She breathed deeply. "You're a good person, Arthur. To Lucan, to me, to your people… even to your father. If he's blind to that, then he doesn't deserve to see your brightness." She placed a hand on his upper arm, and he leaned into the touch gladly. His muscles felt like home wrapped up in her fingers.

"Thank you," he replied quietly, a weak smile forming on his face. She would not let her angel fall.

* * *

It's been far too long, and for that I am truly sorry. Life has been taking its toll, and I hope you can forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, but I really would love your opinion on this chapter. I haven't written Merlin in so long! (And I'm paranoid there was a little too much fluffy ArMor in this chapter, haha). I've missed you all so much, and promise I won't leave for that long again. (:

_Reviews are love!_


	13. Only This, and Nothing More

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Thirteen_

'_Only This, and Nothing More'_

Arthur found Merlin not far from where he had left him, and sighed sharply. There was nothing worse than knowing he was in the wrong; _he, _Prince of Camelot, wrong. It just didn't seem right. But to be truly chivalrous, it was something he had to admit. Arthur closed a bit of the distance between him and Merlin. Being right on eye level with the dark haired friend made it hard for him to believe he was a prince while Merlin was merely a servant. _He's more than that though…_

"Merlin," Arthur began tightly, "I'll admit I was a bit rough with you in the training…" his words ran away from him before he could finish his sentence. An _I'm sorry _did not so easily cross the prince's lips. Merlin smiled sadly, his blue eyes twinkling with a little less splendor. Arthur did not fail to notice the change. The guilt rose in his stomach, yet he kept a strong gaze with Merlin. He's never let down his guard.

"Armor would have at least kept my skin from welting," the wizard replied, referring to the times Arthur's sword had made contact with his fragile skin. "But, I accept your apology." Merlin's smile brightened a tad. Being mad at Arthur was like becoming angered at the sun for burning you; there was no way you could hate the light for that long.

Arthur smiled mischievously. "Good," he said with mild sadism, "because we're leaving for Lucan. Ready the horses, Merlin." He licked his lips making them shine even more, despite the crisp air. "Oh, and I will be needing an extra horse; Morgana is accompanying us."

"Mor—" Merlin dropped the sentence, worried of the mood it might place Arthur in.

"Chop, chop, we don't have all day." He turned on his heel, walking away from Merlin with perfect posture. If only his friend could see the way he wrung his hands together. Uther's words still played on repeat in his head, and Arthur felt trapped. Trapped inside a personality that was not his, anger he should not have, and desire that would never be condoned. Why his father did not see the beauty of Morgana, and why even after so long the king still doubted his son, was beyond him. Arthur Pendragon knew that the person he was becoming was not the man he wanted to be. Yet somehow Morgana could still see some light in him; some silent promise that he could maybe be more. That's why he loved her. She had such a way of turning him into the prince, friend, soldier, and lover he'd always dreamt of being. Miraculous woman, Morgana was.

Merlin breathed heavily as he watched Arthur walk away. _Aggravating human being! _He turned his attention to the stable down the other side of the minuscule hill, and began his descent to it.

The young wizard had long since realized who Arthur was. What he had not grasped his why. Sure he could guess, but it seemed there was a level of complexity to the prince he could never decode. Why was it he and Uther had the relationship they did? Why was Morgana the only person seemingly able to bring out a different side of Arthur? Why it was Merlin was more akin to a rag doll than a friend? The questions piled higher as he came closer to the stables.

And there she was, beautiful Gwen, feeding one of the horses. From the vantage point of Merlin, it appeared to be the black stallion Lilac, but he could not be sure. His smile bloomed from melancholy to delight.

He walked quietly into the wooden stable, careful not to catch Gwen's attention. He came up behind her. "I didn't know you liked coming down here," he said softly. Gwen jumped at the sudden voice, but quickly calmed when she realized who it was. She didn't even have to turn around. A little smile found its way on her lips, and she petted Lilac's nose before turning around.

"Merlin," she said pleasantly, "how good to see you!" Gwen wanted to hug him with every fiber in her body, but she couldn't. His arms looked so welcoming, though.

"Yeah, you too," Merlin said with a laugh, and awkwardly gripped his forearm. Nerves plagued his body around Gwen, to put it lightly.

She laughed with him. "I do love coming here," she said, turning her head to take in the whole view of the stable, "it's always so calming. Horses are great listeners."

"Lilac is one of the most understanding," Merlin added shyly. He tapped his fingers on his arm. Gwen's sparkling face looked at him so patiently; it sent a whirlwind through his stomach.

"So I'm beginning to see," Gwen returned. "Well what brings you here?" It was amazing how genuinely interested her caramel eyes seemed. She made him feel wanted.

"Arthur has some business in Lucan, and I have to ready the horses. Did you know Morgana is going with him?"

"I hadn't heard, no. But it was bound to happen soon enough," Gwen said knowingly. Merlin gave her a confused look.

"Why do you say that?" A part of him didn't even care why. He just wanted to hear her talk for an extra moment.

"I've known Morgana a long time, and Arthur and her have always had some sort of connection. Sooner or later they'd break the barrier of status quo." She said it almost dreamily. As if her mind lingered on the word _connection. _Gwen locked her gaze even tighter on Merlin.

"I'm always curious about the little boy Arthur used to be. Has he always been so—"

"Arthur?" Gwen laughed. "No, not particularly. He's always had a charismatic undertone and a touch of cockiness, but the exaggeration of it has been fairly recent. He used to be one of the shiest people I'd ever known."

"What changed?" Merlin said quietly. He felt as if he'd touched on a subject with a truth he might not want to hear.

"I don't know for sure. Life I suppose?" She saw how vacant Merlin looked. "I'm positive that shy little boy is still in there somewhere; you just have to look." Smiling, she walked past her friend and continued on her way. Not playing hard to get really, but there was nothing wrong with a little chase. Merlin focused on her bouncing hair as she departed, and leaned against one of the stable doors.

* * *

My wonderful _Merlin _friends, long time no talk! How have you all been? I've missed you all so. It's been quiet in my tiny little _Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees _world, and I'd be delighted to have all my lovelies back, haha. So please, review, PM me, and don't hate me for this being so short (I'm at camp). If you're really an awesome overachiever, you'll do all three. ;) Hope to hear from you all soon!

_PS; _Next chapter will be the journey to Lucan (I'm planning) so expect it to be longer, with more plot, and maybe even some flashbacks!

_Reviews are highly appreciated! _


	14. Stole Your Soul

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Fourteen_

'_Stole Your Soul' _

_It was autumn time, and the leaves were just beginning to turn. Marvelous reds, yellows, oranges, and browns, all accompanied by a graying sky. This was the time of year for renewal. Morgana had always believed that firmly, and with her birthday coming up swiftly, she knew exactly what she wanted. Arthur Pendragon. She would be fifteen, and she figured it was about time she and Arthur stopped playing these foolish friendship games, and began to think about what was to come. Well, what she expected to come. Uther saw Morgana as a good match for his son, it seemed, and she was sure the matter of betrothal would come up soon. A part of her was nervous. It wasn't that she didn't want to be with Arthur, it was just marriage would solidify things—make it seem more of a chore, than love. Morgana would not be a duty; a byproduct of what it meant to be royalty. She didn't know what she'd do if that was what Arthur thought of her. Panic-stricken, she fumbled with the sleeve of her black dress. She didn't know why she'd chosen black today, but it just felt right with the mood. All Hallows Eve was tomorrow, as was her birthday, and she knew some lords and ladies in court saw her as an omen. Morgana knew she was not bad luck: the harvests prospered every year around her birthday. The kingdom was rich in the autumn, being the biggest producer of barley and wheat in the area. But Camelot was never at home in the season. Well, its prince and king weren't. Morgana smiled to herself as she sat on one of the old walls that paved a rickety roadway. A short distance from the city, it was her place of worship. Not to any god, or ideology, but rather the worshipping of the human spirit. Amongst the trees and tall grasses, Morgana felt alive; as if she could not fail, or be hurt. It was here on this very stone wall she'd dream for hours about what was to become of her; of her relationship with Arthur. The little area was magical to her. _

"_Morgana," Arthur said from behind her in a sing-song-esque tone. She jumped when she heard the sound, and turned her head around immediately. The prince stood there with his magnificent blond hair, and lips as red as the leaves around his feet. Morgana glared at him momentarily, but then lightened her gaze. _

"_What are you doing here," she asked evenly, though her breathing was still shaky, "I thought you were hunting." Red jacket against pale skin, Arthur was like the combustion of July and December. Marvelous. _

"_I am," he returned dismissively, "and it looks like I've caught my prey." He gave a laugh. "You shouldn't have worn black, Morgana, it makes you stick out." _

"_Well, if I had known I was being hunted…" Morgana replied, shaking her head. Arthur heaved himself onto the wall, his hands dangerously close to her thigh, and spun around so he faced her. She turned her torso a tad so she could be eye to eye with him as well. For a moment or two, neither one said a word. The chilly air breezed between them, but they did not feel apart. Arthur tapped an index finger on the wall and Morgana simply stared at it as the pad hit the stone time and again. She was mesmerized by him, and all the life he radiated. Granted, Arthur did not feel calm in the presence of fallen leaves and mildly cold air, but around Morgana, anywhere felt like home. He licked his lips at how cliché it sounded. _

"_Can I show you something?" Arthur asked, not lifting his eyes from his finger. Morgana looked up to him, and smiled. When he was focused on something, he looked like a little boy again. A boy with no worries or fears, strife or duties—just purely Arthur. It had been a while since she'd seen the boy come into light, but she was glad to get a view of him now. Her memories always felt safe when they were tucked away in the happiness of the past; because the future was becoming more and more cloudy each day. It slightly terrified her. But nonetheless, she kept her smile firm, and mind set on the present. _

"_Sure," she said, beginning to slide herself off of the wall. She was anxiously excited for whatever he had to show her. Just the mere idea that Arthur would rather spend time with her than hunt, was enough. Arthur followed her example, and jumped down as well. Reaching the ground before Morgana, he reached out his hand, and she took it gratefully as she made her way onto the ground. "Where are you taking me?"_

"_You've never been patient with surprises," was all Arthur commented in return, and turned around to give her a friendly smirk. Morgana blushed. The little things about him made her come undone. Come undone in a kind of way that made her a better person, fuller of blithe than strife. She quickened her pace to keep up with Arthur's long strides. He was so confident. _

"_No, I suppose I haven't," she conceded, as she ran her thumb and index finger over her right pinky. They walked in silence for about a half mile, until Arthur finally slowed his steps. Morgana breathed a sigh of relief. They'd been going uphill for a while now, and she was quickly losing her stamina. _

_Arthur walked her a bit deeper into a section of trees, until they made it to a clearing. Miraculously, there were a few flowers, mostly of white and purple, left standing amongst the dead leaves. Nature's tangible hope. Morgana smiled, as Arthur turned to her. _

"_What is this, Arthur?" She began to take small steps around the little area, until she noticed a small tree growing in the middle. _

"_I heard you talking with some of the Ladies about having a place to just clear your head, so I figured I'd try to give you that. The gardeners couldn't plant the tree until two weeks ago, so it's still pretty small. But by the spring, I'm hoping this place can come to life." He crossed his arms, and gave her a small smile. A shy smile. _

"_It's marvelous, Arthur, truly. I love it." She walked closer to him. "Thank you," she whispered as she embraced him. She was shocked at how tightly he held her. It was the type of hold that said 'I want you, and nothing more.' Morgana basked in the pleasure. _

"_You're welcome, Morgana," he said quietly into her hair, and she dug her head a bit deeper into his shoulder. Such strong shoulders; meant for keeping safe a kingdom. And her… _

* * *

I'm so sorry this update is late, and frankly kind of short. But I promised a flashback, so here it is. As they journey to Lucan, I'll hopefully have more of these sorts of things, along with present day chapters. But I was working forever on AP Us History, so that's why I'm late. But please, still tell me your thoughts! I miss you all, haha. (:

_Reviews are love! _


	15. Remember, Arthur, Thou Art Immortal

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees _

_Fifteen _

'_Remember, Arthur, Thou Art Immortal' _

Merlin was finally able to bring the horses out to the anxious party waiting just outside the city gates. Morgana was broken from her gaze on the stony wall, and in turn, her memories, and looked to Merlin who was fiddling with the reins of Arthur's horse. For years the blond boy would only ride white ones; he was insistent upon it. But as of late, the black stallions of ebony mystique were all she'd ever seen him ride. To be quite honest, she felt the darker horse fit Arthur better. It didn't seem to be a sign of evil, and a sickening laugh of sadism… it brought out the light in the Crown Prince; let the whole world see it in luminous color. The stallion was just as powerful as its master, given the very fitting name of Cathal, meaning battle strong.

Arthur mounted quickly, ready to get this journey underway. It would be a minimum of five days before they reached Lucan, and the prince could sense snow threatening the air. If they did not leave soon, they would be caught in the storm before they set up camp. Noticing their leader's readiness, the knights mounted their horses, as did Morgana and Merlin. Granted, Merlin had a bit of trouble getting on the mischievous horse Percival, but he managed it without causing too great of a scene. Arthur found the whole situation incredibly amusing, as per usual, and smirked before turning to face forward. Oh, the entertainment Merlin provided…

Before they could set off though, they heard heavy footsteps approaching them swiftly. Arthur turned around, Morgana and her horse now by his side; to see Aleyn breaking through the line of knights like Moses had parted the sea. His jaw was set in determination, his eyes seemingly peeled for battle. Whatever the man had to say, the automatic answer would be yes. It seemed the only answer that was to be accepted. Arthur kept his posture tall, his chin set in poster boy royalty.

"Sire," Aleyn bowed, "I would ask to accompany you on this journey. It is not every day that a Nantres man can see the world." His words were almost feeble. Certainly not in how they were spoken, but still the vibe of meagerness was not lost. Arthur was slightly puzzled. Aleyn sounded like an old man who wanted nothing more than to see what a flower ten miles away looked like. Morgana was heartened by it all. She supplied a smile, wanting to answer a quick 'yes' for Arthur. She held her tongue nonetheless.

"Of course, Lord Aleyn," Arthur replied courteously. "Merlin, would you please retrieve a horse for his lordship?" The prince eyed Merlin almost tauntingly, happy to see his servant fluster with Percival once more.

"Yes sire," the dark haired boy sighed, graciously of course, and timidly took his foot from the strap so he could swing his way down. Percival would have no such thing, and bucked slightly so that Merlin slid almost midway up the horse's neck. Everyone paused, most worried about the fate of Merlin, but Arthur waited anxiously to see the grand finale. Luckily, for Merlin, Aleyn grabbed hold of Percival's reins so he could get down easily and without injury. Morgana observed how Arthur outwardly sighed. The men probably took it as a breath of relief, but Morgana knew her prince better. She smiled, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes. _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur… _

"Thank you," Merlin mumbled, utterly embarrassed, and jogged his way shakily back to the stables.

"You have quite the servant," Aleyn commented with something remotely close to a smile. Nantres men did not normally smile. So, the gesture always came across as awkward. Arthur had learned to pay little attention to it.

"Yes, well, he certainly is that," Arthur replied with an amount of civility Morgana had never seen before in him. Aleyn had some sort of hold over the prince. One in which there was nothing to do but follow the rules and speak with eloquence. She was beginning to like the results of it. Arthur gave her a sideways look, once it was acceptable to break eye contact with Aleyn. She blushed slightly.

"Why are you looking at me like that," she whispered, because of their closeness, and Arthur only smiled. Morgana shook her head. The boy was a new puzzlement each day.

"So tell me, Prince Arthur," Aleyn began, "when we return, will there be a tournament in the near future?"

Arthur froze, quickly remembering the panic he'd felt about jousting in front of the powerful lord. If Aleyn wanted hand to hand combat, the prince would most certainly oblige confidently; request he show his stealth and power with a sword, and he'd jump at the opportunity. But to ask him to joust was another matter entirely. When he was a child, it was his most favorite pastime. To feel the heavy and steel-like wood in his hands was a very empowering feeling. Because despite his smallness as a child, he felt invincible with a lance in his hand. It gave him the sense that the world was his, and accepted everything he had to offer. His father had also been most proud of him when he was on a horse, lance firmly in hand. But something broke in Arthur, years ago, and suddenly everything was different. To this day, he hadn't a clue what it was, but it was the day Arthur Pendragon died. Well, the Arthur that used to be, at least. Jousting became more of a duty, the lance suddenly losing all of its magical appeal; his father ceased to view his son with pride, rather replacing it with disappointment; and Morgana—the beautiful Morgana became more than just a childhood friend. She became everything to Arthur. It terrified the hell out of him. He lost his sense of control, and became very uneasy at the prospect of someone else holding his heart. Would Morgana keep it safe? Promise never to break or lose it? Would she give it back to him one day, all bruised and tattered with bloody defeat? The possibilities sunk him into the ground. He began to put up defenses of haughtiness and flirtation, and tried desperately to hide his feelings for the king's ward. But love has a quirky way of shining through, despite how hard one may try to hide it.

Looking quickly to Morgana, she had that expression of utter acceptance, and he trembled under his jacket. He returned his gaze to Aleyn. "In the very near future, my lord," Arthur said with a bow and polite smile.

And that's when Merlin returned, with a marvelous salt and pepper colored horse. Laurent was his name, and he was one of the most powerful horses the Pendragons owned. They rarely ever used him except for special occasions or guests. In the case of Lord Aleyn of Nantres, it was both. Arthur was pleased Merlin had chosen Laurent of the lord to ride, and supplied his servant with a smile. It didn't quite submit to the level of saying Merlin had done an absolutely wonderful job, but it certainly gave him credit. Merlin smiled in return, just happy for the acknowledgement. From Arthur, that was more than enough.

Once Aleyn had mounted, Merlin again made his way back to Percival, whose reins were being held by a knight. He quickly got on, before the horse had time to process what was happening, and his eyes brightened. Success. Merlin then made his way to the front of the line, setting himself up just behind Arthur and Morgana. Gold and black seamed together in a firework of opposites. They combusted like fire, fell like autumn leaves.

With that, the party began their journey down the rickety pathway where Arthur had once stolen Morgana's heart.

* * *

"_Can I give you something if you promise never to lose it?" an eleven year old Arthur asked Morgana, as they waited for their daily lesson to start. The girl put down her feather pen, and gave the prince a confused look. _

"_If it's another one of those pastries you stole from the kitchen, no," Morgana answered dryly, already beginning to turn back to her paper. Arthur grabbed hold of her right hand to keep her from writing. _

"_No, no, it's nothing like that," he said, shaking his head vigorously. Morgana looked up at him once more, this time with a little more sparkle. Those eyes always caught him so off guard. His confidence faltered, and he began to tremble. Quickly, he retracted his hand from her wrist so she wouldn't notice. He could never appear slight in her eyes. He breathed in; trying to find any excuse he could come up with. Arthur had lost all his confidence in what he was going to say. _

"_Then what?" Morgana prompted when he didn't reply quickly enough. Arthur shifted in his seat. _

"_It's a secret." _

"_It's impossible to lose a secret," Morgana said, slightly rolling her eyes. She thought it was to be something important. _

"_Do you want to hear it or not?" Arthur bit back, angered mostly at himself for not asking her his true question. _

"_Fine, fine, what is it." She set her pen down, leaning back in her chair, and crossed her arms. She was so convicting when she sat like that. All she needed was a crown, and the people would immediately bow. _

"_Cecily, you know, Lady Argorn's maid, apparently took one of her dresses." Arthur wanted to smack himself. That was the worst lie ever. He was usually quite talented at thinking off the top of his head, but around Morgana, it was hard to be anything but genuine. _

"_That's it? That's your big secret I'm 'never to lose'?" Morgana rolled her eyes, her face seeming to flat-line. She wouldn't dare look back to him again. _

_Arthur whispered to himself, '_can I give you my heart?_'_

* * *

Yeah, so, off to Lucan they go! Woohoo! Sorry for it not being longer. I know I keep saying that, haha. Virtual cookies, hugs, and parades await you when you review, so you know, hint, hint… ;)

_Reviews are love!_


	16. Castles Crumble

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Sixteen _

'_Castles Crumble' _

_Quick Note: Before reading this chapter, I suggest reading chapter 14 once more just to remind yourself… the first part of this chapter focuses on it. _

She wasn't quite sure if it was a dream really, but she knew it couldn't have been reality. That little haven in the middle of the woods with the tree was never hers; not really, anyway. According to Gwen, Arthur had been making the arrangements for the gardeners to come, but at the last moment Uther changed his mind about the whole thing. So, that one spot where both serenity and Arthur could coincide was destroyed before it was even created. Tragic, tragic things happen when autumn and winter try to become one. Though they follow one another in the seasons, they are bound to collide in a crumbling mess where watery snow makes the leaves lose their crunch, and where the muddy leaves dirty the pure white snow. Morgana clenched onto the reins of her horse a bit tighter, and thought about the embrace she and Arthur should have had. It wasn't that they hadn't hugged before; it was the fact it had never been that poetic… that _romantic. _She knew that Arthur felt something for her: it was obvious in how he gazed at her. Even now, years after the prospect of them getting married was lost in Uther's eyes. Morgana promised herself that one day she'd hug him: encircle his body in her arms, and follow it with a deep kiss. Those voluptuous red lips had kept her mesmerized for as long as she could remember. She would finally get the chance to see what they felt like against her skin. Body tingling at the thought, she turned to Arthur who rode quietly beside her.

His eyes were focused straight ahead, seemingly dead. Any brightness in them had faded hours ago. The day was swiftly becoming night, and the flurries were falling faster now, making it close to impossible to see anything.

"What's on your mind," she asked him quietly, just loud enough to make her voice heard over the wind. She pulled her fur shawl tighter against her body. Arthur turned to her, beginning to shrug off his crimson jacket.

"The weather," he responded, handing the material to her. Morgana's fingers were too frozen to move from the reins, so he placed it delicately over them. She gave him a smile, and slowly began to clutch the jacket in her hands; joints cracking to life as she did so. She smoothed it over her hands, so it covered more of her freezing skin.

"The weather?" She echoed; a shadow of an amused smile on her face. Arthur smiled in return, the chilly air seeming to have no impact on his features. He still was distant, though. Certainly not in body, but his mind was somewhere far off.

"It's getting extremely dark," he said protectively. _Like a king_. "Even if we stop now, the ground is already turning to ice." Running a hand through his hair, his long sleeve falling to his forearm, he said "we should have left sooner."

Morgana shook her head, not about to allow Arthur to give up. "You had no way of knowing when the snow was supposed to come; it's not your fault."

"I'm confident your views will change once it's halfway through night, and you can't sleep because of the cold." A sad fire flickered in his eyes, but it still it was no enough to burn the ice of his blue irises. Morgana clutched the material of his jacket in her hands tightly, to remind herself that he was there. It was silly, seeing as he was right beside her, but the scorching crimson color kept Arthur's blithe, bold, and fiery side alive as well. She needed to feel both to believe he was truly there.

"Even then, Arthur, I won't blame you for my struggles. You're a great leader, and everyone here knows it. You're _loved_." Morgana's face, if it wasn't for the cold, would have been the brightest of pinks imaginable. She prayed he didn't pick up on how much she meant specifically herself loving him, not the entire party. If he realized, he made no such knowledge apparent.

There had been a crack right as she finished her words, and before either of them knew it, a large tree branch was falling due to the wickedly quick wind. Morgana pulled back on her reins in attempt to stop her horse before she was crushed into the ground, but even then she was still dangerously close. Arthur's face was terrified, and he looked about ready to pounce out of his saddle. Eyes latched tightly onto the branch, it somehow moved a good foot or so away from Morgana at the last second.

Her body was tingling with fear, and the adrenaline was giving her a false sense of warmth. She'd been so close to death; it should have been her end. _What could cause the branch to move away like that? _There hadn't been a sudden gust of wind, and she hadn't pulled that dramatically on her reins. All logic pointed to the idea that she should have died, and no natural causes she could think of would cause the branch to move. She turned her head to Arthur slowly, her neck shaking. His heaving chest looked almost to be shuttering, and his eyes were frozen on the branch now grounded in the snow.

"How—" Morgana began, as they both were halted in paralysis. By now, Merlin, who was right behind them, and the others had stopped as well.

Merlin had seen the whole thing, and he knew it wasn't him who had moved the branch. His instincts had not been able to react fast enough. He stared at the two in puzzlement, his curiosity trumping his initial fear.

"I uh, I don't know," Arthur replied to Morgana. It was genuine bafflement, but it appeared he knew something he wasn't about ready to admit to. Merlin blinked, to clear his thoughts. It couldn't have been Arthur who moved the branch; that was impossible. Right?

Before anyone could speak again on the matter, Arthur turned on his horse a tad to face the others. Licking his lips, he wiped away any fear that had been on his face. "It's about time we set up camp. We can start again at sunrise." That was all he said, and all that was needed to be said. Arthur turned away from them, rode his horse a little past the mysterious branch, and dismounted. Morgana again ran a finger over the fiery red material she held in her hand.

* * *

I swear I'm not dead, haha, school is just insane this year. Ugh! I think I'm stuck in this terrible habit of short chapters; for now, at least. This weekend I'll try to break it, but hopefully this will suffice. At least this way there will be more chapters, right? lol. So to all those in the US, and even those who aren't, I hope 9/11 has been a day of reflection and remembering, and that we never forget how sacred life is.

_Hours to write, seconds to review; so please do! _(That rhymes! Haha)


	17. Say You're Here

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Seventeen_

'_Say You're Here'_

Arthur was right when he said the cold snowy winds would be unforgiving. No matter how many blankets Morgana wrapped her body in, none could keep out the cold—none could keep out the temptation. With only two tents able to be set up before it became too dark and chilly, Morgana, Arthur, and Merlin had to share a tent. Aleyn had been politely asked by his host Prince Arthur, but he had declined, stating he had taken quite a liking to a few of the men, and would probably be up talking to them for a majority of the night.

This left Morgana only inches away from the wondrous Arthur, covered in his layers of red and warmth. He was absolutely glowing, against the pasty ice that plagued the other members on the journey to Lucan. She wanted to join him with such a desire; even she could not comprehend it. There was such a fire burning within Arthur, and Morgana had always wanted to be close to it. Especially now, as her body was being battered from the wind and drenched chilliness of the ground. Apparently her warmth and furs were enough to melt the snow under her, yet not hot enough to keep her even the slightest bit content. Eying Arthur's sleeping form, he looked so peaceful. At night, every worry and pain seemed to be stripped from him, leaving nothing but the innocence that yearned to break free in his burdened heart. It was tragic, really, that Camelot and expectations had destroyed any chance of Arthur being able to keep his vibrant carelessness. Everything had to be done with pound rather than caress, defensive instead of trusting, and with fiery opinions rather than cool understanding. She pitied the poor soul of Arthur Pendragon, and desired no more than to show him the world didn't have to be simply what his father had shown him. There were bountiful more ways to live life than in the image of Uther Pendragon. Why he couldn't see that though, is what troubled her most. Morgana loathed the day that the spark would finally go out in Arthur, leaving nothing but remnants of a once fantastic fire.

Sighing, she made her decision. Pushing the furs off of her body, she wrapped a single one around her shoulders, since she was only in her night slip and robe. Inching over to Arthur, she knelt beside him, and shakily shook his shoulder. He stirred awake much more quickly than she had anticipated.

"Morgana," he said a second after his blue eyes had flashed open, "is something wrong? What's happened?" Arthur was ready to grab his sword to stand and fight. Morgana gave him a pleasant little smile and he noticeably calmed down. With the initial shock gone, he gave her a confused raise of the eyebrow. She breathed deeply.

"I am absolutely freezing," Morgana said somewhat awkwardly, beginning to regret waking him up. Arthur bit his lip for a second.

"Your mounds of fur beg to differ," he replied, directing his gaze towards her bedding, and Morgana rolled her eyes. She was too cold and sleep deprived to retaliate too greatly.

"Yes, well, they aren't helping much in the way of warmth," she said. She half expected him to say _well, what would you like me to do about it_ in his usual Arthur way. But instead, his eyes became soft and sympathetic.

"You can join me if you'd like," he returned timidly, and Morgana tried her best not to blush. As children they had slept in the same bed once or twice; usually when Uther was away on foreign affairs trips and both missed him greatly. But now, everything was different. Now they were older, and there was no father figure to miss. The implications of the current situation were greatly… grown up.

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," she said flustered, quickly awkward in the situation she'd placed herself in.

"Morgana," Arthur replied, "you've already woke me up. Whatever incontinence you're attempting to avoid, it's null." He gave her a reassuring smile, and turned the cover down. Both of their hearts pounded with abundant heavy sound, and they could detect the timidity in the other's eyes. Still Morgana bravely slipped under the covers, careful not to get too dangerously close to Arthur's scorching body. He was even warmer than she'd imagined him to be; her body seemed to melt layer after layer of unforgiving cold.

"Thank you, Arthur," she whispered with a smile, and she could feel Arthur nod as his golden hair hit the tip of her shoulder. When she'd knelt down, the blanket and robe had fallen a bit, allowing for a small section of the collarbone to be exposed. The silky godlikeness of his hair was unparalleled, and she shivered slightly.

Laying there paralyzed, she debated if it would be too scandalous to move closer to him. As she and Arthur got into their teens, the amount of physical contact had decreased dramatically, making the slightest touch a jolt of shock. She missed his body near to hers more than she'd care to admit, and her boldness was indestructible this night. Figuring since she was already under the blankets, and fighting off the cold, it could be perfectly reasonable to snuggle closer to the prince. Letting the analysis of the situation go before she completely crazed herself out of sanity, she slid closer to Arthur's curled body. His knee hitting her upper thigh, and their shoulders touching each other tauntingly, her entire body tingled. Whatever this sensation was, she never wanted it leave.

* * *

Merlin had awoken by Morgana's shuffling, and had listened to her talking with Arthur. When he'd watched her slide into the prince's covers, a pang of some unsavory feeling ripped through him. He knew it couldn't be jealousy, but something sat uneasily with him about the whole situation. Biting his lip, he dug his head deeper into the fur he was using as a pillow. He wanted nothing more than to protect Arthur; certainly that did not mean Morgana was to cause him harm, but something surged through Merlin's body, warning him of a coming danger for his dear friend Arthur Pendragon.

* * *

I'm alive! School is a bitch this year, so I'm truly, terribly, and humbly sorry. But school has slowed down a bit now, so I'm hoping that means I can update faster, have longer chapters, and have next chapter be them arriving in Lucan! Woot! Yay for plot movement. As for Morgana's "scandalous" act this chapter, I was tired of the physical tension between her and Arthur. This is the first step. So, hoorah!

_Please review? I'd love you all forever! _


	18. Some Say in Ice

_Plucking Buds off Magnolia Trees_

_Eighteen_

'_Some Say in Ice'_

Dawn broke with a sort of shatter against the ice-ridden sky. Even the wind seemed frozen under the paralyzing chill. The trees were completely barren in this part of the kingdom, no memory of the warmer months to lessen the blow of the cold. Merlin wrapped his rather thin blanket around his neck, tossing and turning, and praying to the gods that the coldness would end—it had to end. For him to make it all the way to Lucan, the weather had to become more merciful. Shifting his gaze from his own shaking form, he looked over to Arthur. Morgana was nestled comfortably against his chest, and his arm was wrapped around her tiny torso. Merlin was never the type to be overly jealous; and besides, he held no romantic feelings for Morgana. But as he looked at them, envy overtook him. Arthur was the epitome of warmth and protection, and Merlin would give anything to have that right now—the warmth and protection; not Arthur. If those two wonderful qualities were in a cow, that's where Merlin would flock to. But even as the thought of warmth and protection in cows crossed his mind, something in him preferred to be near Arthur. He was the closest Merlin had ever had to a brother. As he glared with jealousy at how contently the prince and lady were sleeping, it occurred to him that no rules seemed to exist outside of the castle walls. Arthur was more alive than Merlin had seen him in a while, and Morgana was bolder than he'd ever anticipated she could be. Licking his tragically chapped lips, he got out of his little bundle, and walked over to Arthur, shaking his shoulder to wake him up.

The prince moaned and groaned into the makeshift pillow, made out of a blanket or two, and dug his face deeper into the fabric. Attempting to lay his stomach flat on the ground, he was stopped by a barrier. By Morgana. Feeling her next to him, Arthur almost jumped completely out of the blankets. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to recall the events of last night, and how she had ended up in his bed. Merlin, noticing his friend's obvious confusion, let out a laugh.

"Something funny to you, Merlin," Arthur questioned dryly, "or do you just wake people up before the birds are even chirping for sport?" The prince shifted his gaze to Morgana, who was still sound-asleep. Giving her a subconscious tender smile, it occurred to him how beautiful she was in her sleep. Her porcelain skin was blithe and sparkled with dreams—when she was sleeping, she showed no signs of strife or worry. It was a kindly lulling image for Arthur. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he felt a sense of angst over Morgana and her almost perpetual streak of worry. It was always in her crisp green eyes, even if her face showed no hint. Breathing a sigh of timid relief, Arthur got up from his knees, and glared at Merlin, crossing his arms.

Merlin sunk a little, his back curving out of its proud posture. Arthur's eyes were crackling—literally crackling. The young sorcerer was almost positive little flares of fire were bursting within the prince's cerulean eyes, but he refused to see it—to accept its presence. He was tired and cold; he was seeing things. Arthur couldn't have flaming eyes—it just wasn't possible. _Sorcery, _Merlin thought to himself tensely, but quickly let the idea fade from his head. Blasphemy, treason, betrayal… he let the thought slip immediately. There would be no good to come of dubbing Prince Arthur a sorcerer. Besides, it wasn't possible. Was it?

"It's a happy medium of both, sire," Merlin replied timidly. The words themselves seemed strong and confident—the kind of response he would supply Arthur with traditionally, but Merlin was on the verge of shuddering into a nervous breakdown. He couldn't stop looking at Arthur's eyes. Whatever flames had been there were now gone, but Merlin could still see the remnants—or at least he thought he could. He looked away, sternly forcing himself not to look back at them, in search for fiery crackles.

"You're utterly sadistic," Arthur returned, somewhere between darkness and taunt. The shadow of sleep was still apparent in his voice, making it raspy and a tad deeper than it normally was. It was a powerful sound, both icily intimidating and soothingly warm— a staggering hybrid. Smirking, he gave Merlin a confused look, noticing his servant's perplexed face— he tapped his foot on the almost frozen ground. Merlin's eyes shot up to Arthur's, and he shifted his weight. There was something different about the prince. It wasn't outright obvious, but there was the silhouette of a king surrounding Arthur's sharp features. Merlin was mesmerized; he almost felt compelled to bow.

"I wouldn't quite call it sadistic, sire," Merlin replied. He wrung his hands together, his mind whirling over the visions of crackling fire and to-be-kings. Arthur was in his element up here in the Northern Kingdom—the Southern Kingdom, where Camelot was situated, seemed to suffocate him. Out here among the snow, ice, barren trees, and foggy-gray skies, Arthur was almost a king—a true ruler.

"My throbbing head begs to differ," Arthur said blandly, rubbing his temples with his right hand. Merlin noticed as his friend's eyes shifted back down to the sleeping Morgana. There was such tenderness—a kind of passion Merlin had never seen before in Arthur. He felt a knot forming in his stomach. Perhaps he had judged the prince too soon—perhaps he had much more to learn.

"Of course, sire," Merlin began in deference, but then something compelled him to push his boundaries. Arthur still had his eyes subtly fixed on Morgana. There was something that appeared threatening about her—something he couldn't quite name. He didn't want to feel this way; in fact, he felt as if he was being forced in to it. It was as if a boulder was chasing him to this thought, and if he didn't reach it, he'd be crushed. And so, the uncertainty rose violently within him. "A night with the Lady Morgana would be tiring indeed."

Merlin panicked once the words came out of his mouth. He hadn't wanted to say them. Every fiber in his body told him to bite his tongue, but still, they flew from his mouth like uncontrollable venom. A fiery tension kindled rapidly in the air, and Arthur looked about ready to set his servant on fire— though his eyes seemed to threaten with ice. Merlin could feel his heart rate picking up quickly, almost pounding completely out of his chest. What had he done?

"Be careful of what you are insinuating," Arthur warned darkly. Any playfulness that was in his tone had vanished, and there was nothing but thick, molten anger. Merlin was genuine afraid—the usual comfort of his magic didn't even calm him. Arthur was as stern as ice, as treacherous as fire—and all the poor servant could do was stare in awe. He had no words, no strength, no courage; everything had been stripped away from him by Arthur's glare.

"I—I meant no harm, sire." Merlin bowed in submission, looking up warily at his prince. Arthur had seemed to have calmed down noticeably, but there was still the threat of what the prince was capable of.

"I know," Arthur said tiredly, "I know. It seems to be an odd day for us all." Running his index finger over his forehead, he sighed. "Wake the others—we should get moving if we plan on making it to Lucan by sundown." The prince was oddly somber—far too serious, and frankly too forgiving, for the Arthur Pendragon Merlin had become acquainted with. The cold was doing odd things to them all.

"Right away, Arthur," Merlin returned, hardly noticing he had slipped with the formalities. After walking a few feet away, he turned back to see if Arthur's distaste had returned, but the prince was kneeling down to wake up Morgana. Merlin smiled, the heavy burden of distrusting Morgana seeming to be lifted—it was as if a silent voice had finally exited his head. He continued on his way to the other tents.

"Morgana," Arthur whispered, lightly playing with the lady's long dark curls. He hadn't felt her hair in so long—it had become even softer than he remembered it being. Morgana was a luxurious woman, embodying every desire Arthur harbored. She was noble and good; practical and fair. If he could be even half the person she already was, he'd be comfortably past content. Arthur could not understand what his father found so wrong about her—she would be the perfect queen—she would make him a great king. It was only with her that he could reach his full potential; that Arthur knew for a fact.

Morgana began to shift under the covers, and Arthur quickly took his hands from her hair.

* * *

Hello, all. It's been forever—please oh please don't kill me! I finally have my inspiration back, so updates will be much closer together, and I hope to have Lucan in the next chapter. I was craving some Merlin/Arthur, so that's why this chapter is heavy on it. Well, despite my long, long, hiatus, please tell me your thoughts. Reviews keep my muse fire burning, and are genuinely helpful. I hope the New Year is going well for all of you!

_Reviews are love!_


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